Second Encounter
by Rector
Summary: The continuing adventures of Omegaverse ...
1. Chapter 1 A Small World

**The second story in the Encounter Series.**

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**A Small World**

_The Vacancy – Your Country Needs You – Ticking All the Boxes – A Motley Crew – Meeting the Boss – The Assistance – Small World._

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Mark had been the one who pointed the vacancy out to her, dropping a print-out of the details on her desk as he walked past her office to grab a coffee.

"What's this?" Grace picked up the sheet of paper, scanning the top few lines.

"Something you might find interesting," he'd smiled, taking the visitor's chair in front of her desk, crossing his legs and blowing across the top of his mug.

"A job?" she raised her eyebrows, laying the sheet down. "Trying to tell me something?"

"You know you're wasted in this one," he leaned back, relaxed and open. "You've got the Law Archives running so smoothly, you don't even need to be here anymore," he said, leaning back and closing his eyes briefly. "This place needs someone far less skilled and experienced," a sly curve tilting his mouth. "Someone far more like me than you," he added cheerfully.

"I see," Grace leaned back in her chair, a matching smile on her face. Despite his open and enthusiastic attempts to depose her from her role, Grace liked him, she really did. He was brash and cheeky and, despite his attempts to hide the fact, a very clever man. Though Mark Ellington hadn't been with the Archives all that long, he was a competent and capable person, more than able to handle her job now that she'd got the place set up the way it needed to be run.

"Just take a look," he pushed the paper towards her. "You're getting bored out of your skull in here now there's no more mountains to climb."

Grace Chandler sighed. Mark was a pushy little bugger at times, but in this particular instance, he wasn't wrong. Now that the presence of the Archives had become well-established on the London rare-document scene, and now that they had built something of a seasoned and well-respected profile in the conservation community, both locally and on an international basis, there really wasn't that much for her to do that was exciting and different any more. The occasional hunt for a missing document, some unexpected connections between trial recordings ... the Archive was becoming so well known that many people in the legal industry – from _both_ _sides_ of the legal industry – were bequeathing their own archival records, knowing it was a safe place for precious historical papers to go.

Grace's work had changed from that of London's judiciary tomb-raider into something altogether more desk-bound and passive. And yes, though she was loathe to admit it: she was bored. There were only so many committee meetings one could go to and only so many reports one could write or records to acquire before everything started to take on the sensation of repetition. She had been doing this for nearly four years now, so yes; things were starting to feel a little on the mundane side.

Making a face at _l'enfant terrible_, she picked up the paper and paid a little more attention to the details. There was no indication of the company or organisation at the top and she frowned slightly.

"Who is it?" she asked, her eyes staying with the lines of closely printed text.

"Tell me if you like it and then I'll tell you who it is," waving a second piece of paper in the air, Mark grinned almost gleefully.

Frowning some more, Grace read down the job-description.

_Director of (Secure) Archives required to manage the delivery of hard and soft data records management (DM) and all associated technical services. As Director, you'll be responsible for delivering DM services to consistently high standards, taking into account sustainability, relevant health and safety legislation, cost, quality, resources and customer service. You will ensure the maintenance and operation of the archive, ensuring that physical security is maintained at all times. The role will require occasional foreign travel and liaison with similar, national and international agencies. This is a demanding, London-based position and will be remunerated accordingly. Selection criteria includes the following ..._

She recognised the little leap in her chest as genuine spark of interest, hard not to ... a secure archive? In London? Whom would that be for, she wondered. The police? Something to do with the legal profession at least ... Grace felt her curiosity start to warm as she read down the page for the relevant selection requirements. She knew she wanted the job even before she got to the end of the page.

When she read the last of the details, Grace lifted her eyes to the soft brown ones watching her. Mark's grin widened. "Knew you'd be interested," he was unbearably smug as he waved the second sheet between his fingers. "Want the rest?"

"Give it me," she looked ferocious as he teased, keen to see exactly who might be looking for someone like her. She snatched the page from him as he leaned closer.

Oh my god ... _MI5: The Security Service_.

"This job is with MI5," she said, blankly, looking up and across her desk. "You want me to apply for a job with the secret service?"

"Why not?" Mark shrugged in his chair. "It's not like you're got to be James Bond and rush off to save the world exactly, is it?"

MI5. Grace inhaled slowly. _MI5_. Secret agents and guns and old friends who were really strangers. Strangers who were more than friends ... _him_ ... she shook herself inwardly.

It had been nearly two years since the events at Cambridge, since she had met ... him. Almost two years since Rafe Erwood had perished in an accident that wasn't an accident and Carol Williams had died trying to betray them all.

"I'm not sure it would be a terribly good idea," she sighed softly, laying the printed sheets down on the desktop. "I know ... knew someone involved with the security services and ..." Grace shook her head. "Not a very good idea."

Scowling theatrically, her senior archivist leaned back, linking his fingers and looking obstinate. "This archive directorship job's made for you, even I can see that," he said. "Was this thing with MI5 recent?"

Grace smiled faintly. "Nearly two years ago, long before you came on board," she sounded faraway. "Water under the bridge, I suppose."

Then what's to stop you at least _going_ for the job?" Mark sat forward, enthusiastic again. "You can withdraw at any point, but it'd be a shame not to go for something because of a bad experience with someone you once knew."

_Someone I once knew_, yes, that about summed it all up, really. Inhaling hard through her nose, she leaned forward to the desk, resting her chin in her hands, thinking. "I'd need to be sure you'd be willing to stay here at least long enough to train someone up into your job," she said. "Tracy would be good, or even that new chap ... Gary? Guy?"

"Garth," Mark nodded, pleased. Grace was an amazing boss; there was almost nothing in the business that caught her out and she knew just about everyone there was to know. She could turn her hand to any part, any role in anyone's job and was happy to share her knowledge unstintingly with anyone who needed it.

Which was one of the reasons it felt so wrong the few times he'd found her staring out of the window as if wondering what might be just beyond the horizon. She really was wasted in this place, whereas he still had buckets to learn, but Grace had this place set up so smoothly that, even if he made a mistake, he'd still be able to find a way around the problem.

"I'll train them both up and see which one is the best," he said thoughtfully. "I'd probably give them both a month in the job to see who handles it best."

_Good idea. He was already thinking like she would_.

Grace sighed. It was starting to look as if there were no really good reason to avoid applying. "I'll think about it," she said, folding the printed sheets into her jacket pocket knowing that, even if she were to apply, she'd probably have very little chance of success.

There would undoubtedly be dozens of extremely qualified and experienced applicants for such a role; there were probably several candidates already working _inside_ MI5 who would be lining up for the job, and the advertisement was there merely to meet legal requirements of advertising the job to all-comers, regardless that it was very likely sewn up for an insider. The chance of her being anything near what they were after was negligible at best.

There was almost no likelihood of her being offered this role.

###

"So, Doctor Chandler," the Panel Chair at her second interview, a stuffy fifty-something Civil Servant type, rested his linked fingers on the table in front of him. "Assuming your Vetting proceeds without issue, I am required to ask you for a convenient commencement date," he paused, looking down at several clipped sheets beside him. "How would the third of next month suit?"

The third of March. _Less than three weeks away_. Grace swallowed.

"I was advised that any vetting process might take up to four-months," she said. "Sixteen days would seem to be precipitous, reckless, even."

Smiling pleasantly, as if her query was the most astute thing she might have said, the man looked across at his colleagues, two women and two men, who all offered some sort of accommodating smile or nod.

"Normally, this would be the case, but the Director's position is currently vacant and we are hoping to have an active incumbent in the role as soon as feasible," he smiled easily. "Do you have any last questions for the Panel?

Most of the key issues had already been addressed, but this last statement had raised one more question in her mind.

"Why is the position currently vacant?" she asked. "After absorbing all the information you've been able to offer me about the job, it seems a fairly pivotal and somewhat crucial role. How then would anyone see fit to leave before you had located a suitable replacement?"

There was an extended and, Grace imagined, an oddly uncomfortable pause.

"Shall we say the previous incumbent saw parts of his role in a different light to that of senior management?"

"There was a clash of personalities?" she wanted a little clarity here.

The Panel Chair looked fractionally embarrassed. "Something of that nature," he smiled again, lifting and stacking his papers.

_There had been a fight and either the previous Director had quit ... or he'd been fired_. Something to bear in mind, in that case.

Grace recognised the fiddling with papers as an attempt at dismissal; she smiled back. "I'll speak to the Head of the Archive's Committee," she nodded. "And see if they can be persuaded to release me for that date," she added, a small doubt in her voice. "However, as my employment with the Archive has been entirely without ... clashes, you will understand that if they ask me for a full month's notice, I will be inclined to give it to them," she stood, holding out her right hand. "May I confirm my start-date with you by phone or email?"

"Either would be acceptable, though email is probably best; good to have something in writing as you yourself would appreciate," he was being jolly now that she wasn't going to ask any more difficult questions, accommodating even, as he shook her hand in farewell.

Exiting the Portland stone building on Millbank for the second time in her life, there was still enough light left in the day for her to eschew a cab, instead heading directly across Lambeth Bridge and down along Lambeth Palace Road, all the way around Waterloo Station and down towards the river. The walk in the chill late-afternoon air clearing her head and bringing a tinge of colour to her pale skin.

Street lights were flickering on as she rounded the corner of Barge House Street and made her way across the road to the old warehouse and her apartment on the third floor. Clanking her keys in the front door, Grace flicked the lights on inside with a practiced thumb and walked into the welcoming warm with a huge sigh of pleasure, kicking off her shoes and dragging off her heavy winter coat as she did.

The entryway to the flat had been properly finished off some time ago and now boasted a décor of floor-to ceiling documents that she had painstakingly cleaned and restored, then individually framed in black wood and hung almost edge-to-edge around the pale walls. Some of the calligraphy and illuminated pieces were truly spectacular, and the temperate sepia of many of the sheets added a warmth in what might have been a fairly stark and sterile vestibule. The dark russet glow of the polished floorboards and the central chandelier of refurbished garnet glass she'd found in an old theatre auction lent the whole place a deeply welcoming feeling and she felt the external pressure of the day ease immediately as she walked through her central book room and into the kitchen.

Digging around in the freezer compartment of her refrigerator, Grace unearthed a container of chicken stew she'd made too much of the previous week, throwing it into the microwave to heat as she poured herself a glass of champagne in celebration of the afternoon's success.

She was going to be in charge of MI5's data archives.

She was going to be working with secrets.

And secret agents ...

###

There were two separate and, as yet, unopened files on his desk. One was new and contained standard hard-copy recruitment documents which would soon enter the main-stream data-management flow, either to be digitised and stored if the candidate was successful, or destroyed in a secure process if they were not. There was a name printed across the file, _Grace Evelyn Chandler_. The second file was almost two years older, and had never been committed to any form of systematic data-management at all, had never left his private records, in fact. For some reason he had never taken the time to deal with the necessary paperwork. It contained details and reports of a subverted Russian operation on British soil, of the resultant deaths and deportation of several foreign and British nationals, and of the life and times of one _Grace Evelyn Chandler_.

Looking down at both, Mycroft Holmes felt his mouth tighten. As per the usual procedure, the details of any external candidate being recruited into a Level Two security role or higher crossed his desk as surely as the sun crossed the sky.

MI5's Director of Archives was a Class Two clearance with the option for Class One, dependent upon circumstance and need. The kind of information handled by the archives ranged from scrawled notes on ancient paper napkins taken from cafés in Bucharest at the height of the Cold War, to de-encrypted, de-codified, satellite-transmission transcripts of attack-strategy discussions between international terrorist groups. It was a sensitive role and demanded the right sort of personality, appropriately backed up by technical skills and experience. It wasn't simply about storing, finding and supplying information, it also required a searching eye, a mind able to piece together large-scale ideas from a multitude of minutia. Not just a keeper of things, but an analyst of inconsequential detail and an understanding of critical mass.

The previous incumbent had become overly lax, incurring an unacceptable level of performance error. Data had been misplaced; information gone astray. Whoever took the role now would need to run a much tighter ship.

Flicking open the cover of the original file for the first time in over a year, Mycroft found himself examining a large black-and-white photograph of a very attractive blonde-haired woman dressed in jeans and a windcheater, her fair hair blown about by the wind, a pile of old books under one arm as she browsed stalls at an outdoor market. She seemed comfortable and unworried, as if any bad memories had been safely put aside from her life. The next photograph showed the same woman outside a portentous-looking office in the City receiving an industry award for rescuing a series of ancient artefacts from a fire; her bandaged hands testament to her courage and possible insanity. There was a third picture, a faint pressure rising in his chest as he held the photograph up between his fingers.

Sitting at the window in a café staring out and up into the pale sky, she looked suddenly young and without defences, as if she had just heard a sad song on the radio. He remembered her like that; remembered the unexpected light of candour in her face as she looked at him with those clear grey eyes.

His heart thumped once. A reminder that while he may have taken her from his life, he had not been able to remove the woman entirely from his memory. There were moments when he envied his brother's apparent ability to delete unwanted information at will; perhaps he should try it.

But no matter. He sighed, turning to the second file, the new one with all her application details; he'd soon be able to tell if she were up for the role or not.

The first thing he saw, as he had expected to see, was another photograph, this one of a much more recent genesis. Taken at her first interview several weeks prior, she was seated, dressed in a formal suit, its dark contours outlining and flattering her form. For the first time in an age, Mycroft looked into the face of the woman he had cast adrift on a warm London night nearly two years before.

There was little change; the same pale skin, clear and mostly unlined except for a slight hardening around the eyes. She wore her hair shorter now, its _chic_ raggedness an unimpeachable statement of both control and self-expression. Her half-smile was the same as he recalled, as was the faintly mocking tilt of her eyebrows, as if she had just heard something improbable. She was possibly even more beautiful now than she had been two years ago, her evolving loveliness a permanent consequence of her life and experiences. She would still be a stunner in her eighties.

His heart thumped again and he scowled at himself, turning rapidly to the rest of the file.

It was clear within a very brief space of time that _Grace Evelyn Chandler_ was indeed a superb candidate for the vacant position; her knowledge and experience more than sufficient to meet the leadership and technical aspects of the job. The fact that she was also more than willing to go the extra mile for both the people and articles entrusted to her care easily evidenced by her impressive record at Essex Street over the last four years.

A smile flickered across his face; he remembered the Ripoll Transcript she was so determined to acquire; it hadn't taken much to ensure she did. It was the least he could have done under the circumstances.

He turned to her personal details. Had she married? Had she changed her mind and decided to stay with Robert Allen? Or had she found another partner, someone more suited to her various passions?

_Omega_ ...

Apparently not, he read, scanning down the printed page of dry, factual information. There had been no permanent or ongoing partner or close companion of either gender in her life since Allen, a fact Mycroft found curious and somewhat inexplicable. Such a woman as she would never lack for potential mates. He wondered why she had avoided any romantic entanglements; possibly because of her increasing involvement in her work. Grace Chandler had certainly been busy, building up the London Law Archives into a world-renowned facility of conserved documentation that even the better newspapers now quoted as a source of information.

His eyes paused at an unticked box in her personal details section, the one asking if she would like to confirm her biological status as being either _Beta_, _Omega_ or _Alpha_. There was also a box she could have chosen to confirm she did not wish to provide that detail, but she'd left all of them blank.

He exhaled, puffing out his cheeks in thought. It would be simplicity itself to add a tick in the appropriate box, or even to have someone formally query the absence of a specific answer, A faint smile curved the corner of his mouth as he remembered the first time he'd queried her biological status; she had been quite provoked.

Shaking his head, he passed on, reading down the rest of the details. There was nothing at all that might offer any cause for concern in the usual run of things, in fact, the only possible negative in her entire application stemmed from the Georgian icon affair of two years previous, and from his own ... relationship with her, if it even merited such a title. It had been over almost before it had begun, a brief moment of contact between them that had faded as quickly as the television news. Ships passing in the night.

He sat back, assessing the whole. There was no reason to keep Grace Chandler from this position. In all requirements, she was far above expectation, and her experience and knowledge would be a solid advantage to the service. Lifting his eyebrows, Mycroft Holmes pulled a sheet of signatures from the back of the application file and added his own at the bottom.

Then he sat back and wondered how she would feel working, albeit indirectly, for him. If it became overly problematic, no doubt she could be moved, or persuaded to resign as easily as had her predecessor.

Flipping the file closed, he moved it firmly to one side and got on with the next task requiring his attention.

###

The Law Archives had been more than reasonable about her notice, especially when she mentioned where she was going. After an endless round of goodbyes and a farewell-party that left her with a weekend-long headache, Grace found herself getting ready for the first day of her new job.

Though she wasn't expected to be on site before nine, she had awoken early and decided she was too excited to lie in bed and so had spent some extra time in the bathroom, calming the odd moment of nervous energy under the sybaritic shower.

Once out, she rough-dried her hair, pleased it was short enough not to need much more attention than a quick rub. Deciding to have a really good breakfast, she opted for a full fry-up and a massive mug of fresh-brewed coffee. As the food cooked, she put on some Tchaikovsky violin concertos and ballerina-danced her way between kitchen and bathroom as she finished her hair and put on what little makeup she normally wore. Being a special day, she'd bought a new rose lipstick just dark enough to know it was there. Still in her dressing-gown, she waded through her food, feeling surprisingly hungry for the first day of a new job.

Grace realised she was genuinely excited, a feeling she hadn't had for far too long. She was going to enjoy this job and everything that came with it.

Dressing in a new and rather elegant grey suit, the same colour of her eyes, the lightweight material had a Prince of Wales check, a masculine pattern, but was cut in a style undeniably more aligned to the female form. A plain silk camisole of sea-green under the jacket added both a little more respectability as well as a splash of colour. A pair of elegant black low-heeled courts, swirled gold earrings, a splash of her favourite perfume, her old black Condotti briefcase, and she was ready to go. Pulling on a long winter coat and voluminous pale green scarf, she saw it had rained during the night, so waited outside until a cab appeared. As it was only about two miles between Barge House Road and Thames House, Grace found herself at her new place of employment just after eight-thirty in the morning.

Approaching the uniformed security staff at the reception desk, she handed over the letter which asked her to appear by nine, as well as the new photo ID card that had been couriered to her the previous week.

"Doctor Chandler, is it?" the rather substantial man in dark blue kit with a holstered firearm at his hip checked her name on a handy clipboard before picked up a nearby phone. "You can go on up," he smiled, friendly, as he beckoned her through the metal-detector. "Take the nearest lift to the fifth floor and someone will meet you there," he indicated the lift in question. "Enjoy your first day."

About to go, Grace turned, holding out her hand. "I always like to know the people who look after my front door," she said. "And please, call me Grace."

"I'm John Kelso, but everyone calls me Jack," the big man shook her hand, grinning as he nodded at his two compatriots. "The tall young streak at the far end is Perry Mardel, aka Noodles, for obvious reasons, and this is Wilson Burberry," he added, nodding at the older man seated on the other side of the phone.

"Not related to the coat people, unfortunately," Wilson stood, taking her hand, a West Indian background clear in his melodic accent. "Pleased to meet the new Archive Director," he said. "They're a good bunch of people here, but if you need anyone or anything while you're finding your feet, you can always give us a call," he said. "Extension 0007."

Grace found she was smiling back. "An important number to remember, of course," she laughed.

"And let us know if you need anything taken up to your office," the young Noodles was not to be outdone. "We can arrange to get anything up there that you want."

"Where is my office, by the way?" Grace hadn't thought to ask before.

"It's in the corner on the fifth floor, John-known-as-Jack Kelso nodded. "I'm sure you'll get to see it this morning as part of your induction," he said. "Best go on up; the HR people will be ringing wondering where you've gone to otherwise," he smiled.

Waving a farewell, Grace headed into the lift and her brand new job.

By lunchtime, she had completed a huge pile of paperwork, including the signing of a deceptively simple sheet of paper.

"What's this?" she asked, studying the heading below a small crest. _Official Secrets Act (1989)_.

_Oh_.

Suddenly the job had become all too real. Taking a quick breath, Grace put her signature on the bottom line as she had already done with uncounted bits of paper this morning, suddenly wishing for nothing more exotic than a cup of tea.

Most of the people she had met so far were those with whom she'd be working on a regular basis; the HR staff, who handed her a ring of keys, assuring her they kept duplicates in case of an emergency, the Payroll Manager and the like. She'd not yet had an opportunity to sit and speak with Gerald Palmer, Head of MI5 to whom she would be a direct report, but was assured that he would make time for her as soon as his schedule allowed. She'd also met several other department heads and had been given an electronic tablet with all sorts of information pre-loaded to assist a rapid induction. Trying to keep all the names and faces connected was a full-time job in itself, but she made a few notes on who was who before she went to have an initial get-together with her new team.

There were five people reporting directly to her at Thames House. Three men and two women. Two Data-Management specialists, an Intelligence Officer, an Archivist and an Admin assistant.

Walking into a fairly large open-planned space on the fifth-floor, Grace saw there were several people in offices with closed doors, each with large glassed windows facing into the central space. There was another office in the corner with the same large windows, but this one not only had a closed door, but drawn blinds as well. She also noted how drab the place looked in comparison to the rest of the building.

"I'm your Assistant, Doctor Chandler," a very young man with the brightest red hair she had _ever_ seen, in an emerald-green suit and a red bow-tie. The colours were so vivid she blinked several times. "My name's Colin Ward, but I usually get called Colly, or whatever vile calumniate the others can think of upon the moment," he offered cheerfully, shaking her hand. "If there's anything you want, just let me know and I'll arrange it for you," he added, a brilliant smile lighting up his pale, freckled face. "That's your office there," he pointed to the closed door with the blinds. Would you like some tea?"

"Colly, I'd kill for a cup," Grace sighed thankfully. "Can you show me where I can leave my coat and case so I don't have to drag them around with me for the rest of the day?"

Examining the ring of keys in her hand, the young man pointed one out. "That's the main one," he said. "Everything's lockable, although I'm sure you know HR keep spare master keys for everything," he said. "I'll tell the others you're here," he added, heading out for the tea.

Opening her new office and finding a temporary home for her belongings, Grace stood and stretched as she looked out of the window. There were pleasant views overlooking the river from above the line of bare and wintery trees, all the way down to Lambeth Bridge, although the day was cold and grey, she imagined it would be fabulous come summer. But this space was the same drab beige as the rest of the place. What had the painters been thinking?

"Surveying your new kingdom?" a deep, pleasing voice came from the open doorway. "Or is there such a thing as a Queendom?" he asked, walking forwards as she turned to look at her visitor. "Shane Meath, Senior DM specialist," he added.

"King is simply a job-title," Grace smiled warmly, shaking the man's hand. "It doesn't matter the gender of the person wearing the crown," she added. "Grace Chandler," she said. "Archivist, Conservator and Newbie," indicating Shane to one of the two visitor's chairs, Grace took her time walking around and sitting behind her new desk

One thing she had learned over the last few years working on the periphery of the legal profession in the Law Archives, was that there was a massive over-representation of Alphas in the industry, from both sides of the law. Apart from a large number of highly, though perhaps not ultimately, successful criminals cast in the Alpha mould, the sheer volume of barristers and judges, of both genders, who were Alpha to the core was hardly surprising when you actually thought for a moments about the job these people _did_. The law was an intellectual, moral and ethical battlefield, and since Alphas were nature's supreme strategists and warriors, it was hardly to be surprised at that the industry attracted them in droves.

On a more pragmatic level, it meant Grace had come into contact, in one way or another, with more Alpha personalities in the four years she worked at the law Archives than she would have done in almost any other vocational sector except, perhaps, for the armed services. With the extended senses and intuition of an Omega, she had been only too aware of her different physiology and perhaps because of it, had learned to recognise many of the tiny, inconsequential_ tells_ that others might have dismissed as mere idiosyncrasy, had they even been noticed.

And one thing she knew for certain as she took her seat on the far side of her new desk, was that Shane Meath was as openly Alpha as they came. Everything about him shouted it, from the way he wore his shirt, the focus of his eyes, even down to the pressure of his handshake.

Doing some quick mental arithmetic, Grace worked out when, in the next few weeks, she might need to be careful of working overly closely with the man. The suppressants she took were the very best and she had never had any problems before, but all eyes were going to be on her for the foreseeable future, and they would be clever and discerning eyes at that. The last thing she wanted or could afford was to have any Alpha in this place taking an unwarranted interest in anything other than her work.

The other thing Grace had learned about dealing with Alphas in the workplace was that any sign of early compromise was often taken as a sign of indecision and weakness and was to be exploited at every opportunity. The only way to instigate a successful working relationship was to meet them head-on.

"I haven't had an opportunity to look at your file yet," Grace smiled thoughtfully as she looked at him. "But I'd appreciate knowing now if you were one of the applicants for my job."

The faintest intake of breath and additional curve to the corner of his mouth answered _that_ question.

"You don't waste any time," the grin was, if anything, a little wider, a little more alert. The man spoke with a very faint northern accent, perhaps from the Newcastle or possibly even higher, Northumberland, maybe. A Geordie, at any rate.

She smiled again. Her mother had come from Seahouses, about as north as you can get without being Scottish.

"Howay man," she leaned back in her chair, linking fingers across her stomach. "Ya think I divvin' na a canny lad in ma awn office?"

His eyebrows raised, Meath laughed outright. "Where?" he said. "Not Newcastle, but where?"

"Mother was from Northumberland, but my father is from London; they met while he was up in Coldstream making a documentary for the BBC back in the Dark Ages before the internet," she grinned to match him. "I regard myself as bilingual."

"I came down from Newcastle after the IT company I started collapsed in the GFC," Meath shrugged philosophically. "This place was advertising and I applied. Been here ever since," he said, nodding at the memory. "And yes; I did."

"Then what were you weak in?" Grace was puzzled. Internal applicants almost always had an edge over outsiders, unless they lacked something considered essential.

"People-management, I was told," Meath shrugged again. "For the Director's job, the applicant needed to have good experience in a range of skills, and I just about had it all except for the management stuff," he sighed. "Too late now, of course," he added, smiling a little ruefully.

"Then that's the first thing I'm going to get you working on," Grace leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. "I'll need all my senior staff to be able to handle every senior role in an emergency, including mine," she smiled. "The next time you apply for a senior role, a lack of people-management will be the last problem you'll have. Can you start thinking about a three-month rota among the three senior positions and a deputy role for my position? I'll want everyone in the team with sufficient seniority to be able to double for me if I'm out of the office," she smiled again. "And since you were the first to come and say hello, put your name down as the first one for DD training."

"Deputy Director?"

Grace rolled her eyes, teasing. "What else?" she paused as the redhead in the green suit reappeared with a cup and saucer. "And what is your heart's desire, young Mr Ward?" she said, reaching for the tea and taking an enthusiastic sip with visible pleasure. "To what role do you aspire in this organisation?"

Standing, looking between a bemused Shane and a woman he'd never met before but who looked as though she liked his tea quite a lot. The shoulders of his green jacket lifted and dropped slightly.

"You'll laugh if I tell you," he looked unsure.

"Possibly, but if you don't tell me, I'll never be able to help you, will I?" Grace blew on the tea and sipped deeper, sighing as the hot liquid hit exactly the right spot.

"Well, okay then," Colly lifted his chin. "I want to be an Investigative Operative," he said, daring either of them to scoff.

"And why can't you do that?" Grace had no idea why he couldn't. "Are you intelligent?" other than an eccentric dress-sense, there must have been something to recommend the boy in order to be recruited in the first place.

He looked down, blushing. "They don't like gay field agents," he murmured. "They say it makes you vulnerable."

"Then if you want the job, you'll have to prove them wrong, won't you?" Grace finished her tea, and waved the cup in his direction. "Any chance of another? I've done so much talking today, I feel like old blotting paper."

"You aren't bothered about ... that I'm ...?" the redhead left the question incomplete.

"Only if you leave me dying of thirst on my first day," Grace waved the cup a little more vigorously. "Please?"

Grabbing the china, the green suit and a newly begun little smile vanished through the door.

"He's a good lad, a bit dreamy at times, but smart enough," Meath tipped his head towards the door. "He'll be like a puppy now he knows you're on his side."

"I'm on everyone's side, Mr Meath," Grace lifted her eyebrows. "But I always look after my team, and that's your first lesson in people management. Find out what your people want and find it out first thing. I already know you want my desk," she smiled cheerfully. "Which means you're going to be working extra hard to do not only your job but mine as well, which'll make us all look good, won't it?"

"You sure only ya ma was a Northerner?" Shane laughed.

"Positive. My father is now living in sin with a sixty-year-old widow in Hastings," she sighed. "He thinks I don't know about the widow, but they've been friends for years since mum died and Hastings isn't _that_ far away," she paused. "When can you give me a guided tour around your part of the show?" she asked. "The sooner I'm abreast of what's happening here, the sooner we can decide what the problems are, if indeed there are any, and what to do next."

Colly returned with more tea.

"The rest of the gang are waiting outside if you wanted to say hello," he waved a finger over his shoulder. "Or not."

"A sensible idea, Colly," Grace grabbed her tea and ushered both men out of the room before her, walking into the open central space with a large oblong table running down the middle with a throne-like chair at one of the narrow ends.

That would be one of the first things to go, she thought.

There were three other people waiting for her now, and all the other office doors were opened. Another man and two women.

According to her earlier briefing by the HR manager, the older of the two women was Magda Borowski, like Meath, a data management specialist. The other, much younger woman was Ruth Lannagan, Intelligence Officer. The other man, older, perhaps in his early fifties or so, and in dire need of a haircut, would be Stratford Thomas, the Archivist.

Waiting until she was sure all eyes were on her, Grace put her cup down on the table and took her time looking at each person, meeting their eyes and offering a faint smile. Once she was sure they were all wondering what she might be about to do, she folded her arms and stared around the open office. It was functional, perhaps, but on the bleak side.

"My background is in archival conservation, preservation and management," she said, finally. "I have a profound dislike of things, especially important things, and especially important people, being ill-treated and abused," she added, turning to examine everyone's expression once again. "It doesn't take a genius or a mind reader to walk into this part of the building, this magnificent fantastic building, and wonder why the attention and care that has been so obviously lavished upon the rest of the place, appears to have ended at the entrance to the central archives office."

She looked around and smiled.

"First off, I'm going to get this area into a comfortable place to work for all of us, and then I'm going to ensure that we, each of us, have all the tools and training we need in order to not only do that work, but to do it flawlessly, and then we're all going to learn how to do at least one other job in case of emergencies," she added. "I've been told that everyone here has had a bit of a rough journey recently, and I understand very well how it feels to have one manager after the next, but I'm planning on bringing in a bit of stability for a while," she walked over and perched on the edge of the long table. "If you can think of anything you'd like to have changed, then now's the time to do it," Grace said. "While I'm the new broom, I can probably get a whole raft of things done that will be impossible in a couple of months, so let's take advantage of my temporary indestructability and push it as far as we can in the time we have," she looked carefully at each of them. "Any questions so far?"

"I'm Lannagan, Ruth Lannagan," the younger of the two women folded her arms as she spoke. "Why do you think making any of these changes will make the smallest difference to our problems? You have no idea what kind of problems we've been having here."

A reasonable observation, Grace saw, but not what she wanted to address right now.

"I have a very good idea of your problems, probably because I understand the tasks that have been set for this team, and _those_ things I know extraordinarily well," she lifted her eyebrows and shrugged a little. "Of course there are going to be specific, parochial problems, such as the intense security safeguards here that I haven't had a chance to grapple with yet," she smiled happily. "But that's what makes this work so fascinating, doesn't it? It's the reason you all wanted to be in it in the first place? These are just operational issues. Once we find out what's causing them, we're all clever people; we can surely come up with enough ideas between us to fix our own mistakes?"

"The management here doesn't like a lot of change," Stratford Thomas, the older man with the bad hair, frowned. "They aren't going to let you do the things you want to do," he added, more or less adamantly.

Grace smiled again. It was the opening she'd been waiting for.

"Okay," she asked, light-heartedly. "Which one of you lot is the most honest and trustworthy?"

There was momentary confusion within the group as they looked at each other, lost.

"This entire cabal is about as trustworthy as a large orca in a tank of penguins," Colly stepped forward. "But you can trust me," he added. "Cross my heart," he said, with some newfound confidence.

"Good, then I will," Grace pulled out a twenty-pound note from her pocket and waved it around for all to see. "I've been waiting all day for someone to tell me I couldn't do something," she grinned delightedly. "And now I get the chance to show off and actually do it," she handed the cash to her Assistant. "Twenty quid says I can get anything I want for the next ten days," she said.

There was a brief silence,

"You're on," Shane Meath dragged a wallet from the back pocket of his trousers, digging out one of the mauve notes and handing it to the grinning redhead. "If you can get half of the things you think you can get, then I'll be amazed," he laughed. "Nobody else has been able to do it."

"Ah, Grasshopper, watch and learn," she waggled her eyebrows and affected a wise teaching voice. "But I have no idea of what really needs to be done," she added, more normally, looking around the room. "Although I could probably come up with a bunch of ideas just by sitting here. Anyone care to make me a list?"

"What sort of things?" the other DM specialist, Borowski, looked vaguely interested.

"Anything that can realistically be changed in this place within the next couple of weeks," Grace kept looking around. "The physical stuff; furniture, equipment, décor," she paused, thinking. "But also any training or additional familiarisation anyone feels they'd like to have or might benefit by," she added. "Especially if it's going to be expensive," she grinned. "Right now, I'm the golden girl, and I'm fairly sure I can wangle almost anything for the next week or so, so let's do as much damage to the budget as we can, while we can."

Colin slapped down a sheet of paper on the table behind her, scribbling rapidly. "For God's sake, get us some decent stationery and office supplies," he murmured as he wrote. "I'm deathly fed up of scrounging for stuff in other offices," he added, standing back up and giving her his irrepressible grin. "Difficult to be good at administration when there's no proper supplies."

"Right," Grace nodded. "Make me a comprehensive list," she said. "And I mean comprehensive. Don't leave anything out. Go mad," she matched his grin as the young man stood back, clearly thrilled with the idea of unlimited office supplies.

"Who's next?" she asked, looking around, half expecting it to be Meath.

Stratford Thomas cleared his throat awkwardly. "There is one thing ..." he paused, uncertain.

"What?" Grace was all ears. "What do you need?"

"It's the phones," Thomas said uncomfortably. "They need to be replaced; they've been muffled and off-kilter for ages and they don't always connect to the correct extension when you use them," he shrugged. "Nothing terribly serious, but..."

"Okay," Grace nodded, wondering for a moment if it really was the phones or if Stratford might be going a little deaf. "New phones, what else?"

"Sometimes the processing time on the computers is way too long," Magda spoke for the first time, revealing a broad Birmingham accent. "Despite the work we do on them, they really could do with a bit more oomph."

"Right; new computers if I can stretch the budget," Grace sucked in a deep breath, thinking about numbers. "What else?"

The expressions were still cautious and she knew it was going to be a long afternoon.

###

The red phone rang.

It could only be one of three people, and as Mycroft had spoken to both the PM and the head of MI6 within the last hour, he knew it would be neither of them. That only left ...

"Good afternoon, Gerald. How good to hear from you again."

"Data has apparently stopped falling into the black hole," Palmer announced abruptly. "There's been no further incidents of misplaced information since we removed the Head of Archives, so with luck, that'll be an end to the situation. God knows where he'd been putting the stuff, and we've still got a trace-team running down anything important, but now we have his replacement on deck, we should see an improvement in the performance indicators for the entire section, but there's a problem."

"_Problem?_" Mycroft disliked hearing this word from other people. It usually meant additional effort was about to be expected on his part.

"We can't be sure, but several small pieces of the ... misplaced data seem to have surfaced in unexpected places," he said, slowly. "We can't even be sure it's the _same_ material, or just coincidentally similar, but if it is, then there was a great deal more going on than we suspected. We're checking now, but we're hampered because we don't want to go in too hard and disrupt the market, assuming there is one, and we're not just seeing shadows."

There would always be a market somewhere for classified information; always one side, or organisation or person who would pay and pay well, to undermine the competition. It was the nature of politics and Capitalism. But if the missing data was actually up for sale, then it meant ...

"He's still in London?" Mycroft felt his face harden. The last thing he could abide was a traitor. "We still have him?"

"Yes, and that's the strange thing," Palmer spoke thoughtfully. "The man's carrying on as if he didn't have a care in the world. Only a few days ago he accepted a position with one of the big banks involving a senior DM role and there was a bit of a party last night with the family. He's making absolutely no attempt to lie low. He's the veritable picture of innocence, in fact."

"He's also a clever man and if he was in the practice of selling classified information, then he'd know our eyes would be well and truly on him," Mycroft looked sour. "I want a full briefing on the state-of-play, but not over the phone," he pulled his hunter from its pocket. "I am in meetings for the rest of the day, but should be free after seven," he said. "Don't transmit anything; I'll come to you," he paused. "I may bring some assistance."

"Assistance?" Palmer had worked with Holmes for several years now and anything the man deemed 'assistance' was worthy of careful attention.

"Just some external resources we might consider using to unearth the missing data, if, in fact, it has actually been put out to tender," Mycroft lifted his eyes as Anthea entered his office, her eyebrows raised in query. He nodded, understanding the intrusion.

"The new Archive Director started today, do we bring her into this?" Palmer was of two minds. "She will have to be advised at some point, but perhaps not until we have something more concrete to go on."

"Grace Chandler," Mycroft mused as he finally uttered her name out loud. "If she's as good as she appears to be on paper, there should be no real issue," he added. "Her record speaks for itself, as long as she can handle the pressure, of course. Have you met with her yet?"

"About to," Palmer paused as if sensing something in the other man's tone. "Was going to give her the old sweet-talk about services to democracy, but hold off on the missing data until we were sure. Anything I should be aware of?"

"Not a thing," Mycroft was smoothness itself. "Let me know how you get along. After seven, then," he added, ending the call. He had a momentary image of Gerald Palmer attempting to sweet-talk Grace Chandler with anything. A ghost of a smile curved his mouth.

"Anthea, please occupy the South Korean Ambassador for a few minutes, would you? I have two brief calls to make before she and I speak," he didn't wait for an answer, but closed the intercom and pulled out his Nokia, selecting a speed-dial number.

"Lestrade," the Detective Inspector's voice was brisk, as if he'd been caught in the middle of a fast walk.

"Inspector Lestrade, please forgive my interruption of your afternoon postprandial."

There was a brief pause. "I can't see a damned one of those CCTV cameras of yours, Holmes," the Londoner sounded curious. "So where are you?"

"I assure you, Inspector, you are not under any form of surveillance at present. You merely sounded a little breathless, and my assumption that at this time of day you would be fully clothed and at work renders it improbable you would be out of breath for any other reason."

"Yeah, well there is that," there was something of a grin in the words. "You never phone me without a good reason, so what is it you want?"

"Are you busy tonight around eight? I would appreciate your presence at a meeting with MI5."

"Why?"

"You know some of the seediest people in London, you know the markets; you know the fences," Mycroft sat back in his chair. "I may need access to that information tonight. Will you come?"

There was a delay of several seconds before the police inspector responded. "I might have a date tonight," he said. "Is it really that important?"

"Lestrade, you haven't had a _date_ in over four months, do you truly have an assignation arranged for this evening or are you merely testing the waters?"

"Just seeing what you'd do if I said no," Mycroft heard a faint sigh at the other end of the phone. "No," the Scotland Yard inspector admitted. "No date, more's the pity. You want me to meet you there or do I rate a lift in that fancy wagon of yours?"

"I'll have my car collect you from the Yard at seven-thirty," he said. "I doubt the meeting will be over-long, if that's any consolation, but your local street-knowledge may offer an insight I'd otherwise lack."

"Yeah, okay, Mycroft," Greg Lestrade was definitely smiling. "No need to go all mushy on me, I get the drift. See you at half-seven at the front of the building."

Mycroft's second call was to his brother.

"Mycroft, it's a Monday afternoon and I'm about to examine a purported case of spontaneous human combustion; can this not possibly wait?"

"Relax, Sherlock," the drawl of the elder Holmes sounded more like an order than a suggestion. "I find I have need of your insight at a little soirée this evening."

"Oh? And what is it this time? Kim Jong-Un paying London a flying visit? Iran finally decided to see what the West is really like? Thinking of investing your ill-gotten gains in the buoyant London housing market? _Hmm?_"

"There may be a traitor dealing sensitive government information in London's streets," he answered calmly, used to his sibling's melodramatic outbursts. "I'd like your thoughts, if you'd care to offer them."

"Who is it? One of yours?"

"I'll have the car at Baker Street at seven-fifteen," Mycroft checked his watch again. "Must dash," he ended the call, knowing full well his brother would be unable to resist the lure of any possible hunt.

"I'll see the Ambassador now, please Anthea," he stood, fixing a congenial smile to his face as the door to his office opened and a small, dark-haired woman entered. Bowing, he indicated her to one of the visitor's chairs before he too sat.

"Madam Ambassador," he began. "So pleasant to see you once again. Is it the impending DRPK nuclear test, or the recent suicide of your Deputy Prime Minister you wish to discuss?"

Taking the tea Anthea brought in, the woman smiled and nodded. "Both," she said, reaching into her briefcase and extracting a single sheet of paper. "But also this," she added, placing the sheet on Mycroft's desk. "Our National Intelligence Service suggested I speak with you on this matter in the first instance."

Reading swiftly through the closely printed lines, Mycroft stifled an internal sigh. A portion of the missing MI5 material had now crossed international borders. This particular piece was additionally problematic in that it was regarding Britain's ... _involvement_ in the recent Korean national elections.

Looking across his desk at the calm expression of the ambassador, he knew this was going to be a long afternoon.

###

He could see she wasn't the least bit unnerved by his scrutiny, even though he was the Head of the Service and they'd not actually met before. Nor had she been inside his office, nor been exposed to the full impact of his stare before, and he'd been told by experts that his stare was relatively ferocious. After shaking her hand and bidding her sit, he had simply regarded her as various thoughts floated through his mind.

Grace sat in the rather comfortable chair facing her new boss. The man was reasonably tall and broad-shouldered with something of a military bearing. They had spoken on the phone; he had called to congratulate her on gaining the appointment, but there had been no contact between them since. And right now he had her fixed with his eyes as if he half expected her to sprout wings and fly away.

"Is something wrong Mr Palmer?" she tilted her head slightly. "You seem uncomfortable."

"Nothing wrong," he relaxed fractionally. "Wondering at what level to bring you in, is all," he added. "Several issues are ongoing, but I'm reluctant to overburden you with all of it on your first day. It would be a little unfair, I feel."

She smiled. "One of the reasons I applied for this post was because my previous role had lost its sense of challenge," she lifted her eyebrows. "While I can't promise to resolve every issue on my first day, please don't feel you're being unchivalrous by asking me to do what I'm actually being paid to do," she laughed. "Is there anything in particular you want me to look at today?"

Despite his best intentions, Gerald Palmer found himself smiling back. Not only affable and competent, but extraordinarily easy on the eye, Grace Chandler would seem to be something of a catch. The woman was also approaching her forties and single; unusual for one so favoured. He wondered if there was anything there that might bear further inquiry.

"Gerald, please," he leaned forward on his desk, clasping his hands together. "We're a great deal more informal these days," he added. "How has your day been thus far?"

"Fairly hectic," she sucked in a quick breath, nodding. "Lots of detail to absorb and digest; lots of people to remember. Lots of questions I want to ask and one or two things I need to get fixed up in the archive area before I can really get to grips with the underlying issues."

"What kind of things?" Palmer wondered how far she had been able to delve into her new department's operation at such short notice.

"After speaking with my team earlier, it's painfully clear that there's been quite some neglect in the entire section," Grace looked down at her fingers before meeting his eyes again. "Not only has their individual development as professionals been deploringly omitted for the last two or three years, but the facilities of the section have been bypassed in almost every single upgrade budget since 2011," she added.

"And you know this because your people told you?"

"I know this because my people told me and because I checked the last four years' worth of departmental budget allowances for the archives," she said calmly. "I'm already starting a list of essential equipment upgrades, and though I realise I have budgetary competition to contend with, I'm hoping to get at least a few things lifted to a properly functioning level before I ask everyone to put their shoulders to the wheel."

"A list?" Palmer managed not to smile. She probably wanted new carpet and the windows cleaned. "Might I see?"

"Of course," Grace looked happy as she pulled out a large folded sheet of paper from her jacket pocket, opening it and handing it across the desk.

Expecting the usual non-essentials, to which he could give a blithe nod and keep her happy, the Head of MI5 scanned down the first few lines and realised his smile was fading. Upgrades to all hardware bringing everyone within the organisation's technical envelope; a complete renewal of the internal phone-system; new archival software to run in conjunction with the internal secure system; a new rota of staff enabling the take up of transferrable skills; ongoing training ...

"You realise, of course," he sat back with a faint but slightly superior expression. "There is almost no hope of achieving most of this within your department's existing budget? I am reluctant to pop your balloon on the first day, but ..."

"If I may interrupt, Gerald," Grace smiled again, a ravishing, happy smile. "I did a few sums of my own and I think that if I'm able to defer part-payment of the upgraded technology until next year's actual funded budget, I should be able to do it all. At least," she paused and frowned for a moment. "I think that would be the best way to do it," she smiled again, handing over a second sheet of unfolded paper upon which were several long sections of jotted financials.

Gerald Palmer flipped open a pair of heavy-framed reading glasses and bent over the neatly written costings. There might be one or two incorrect assumptions, but they were minor. On the whole, the woman was right. It could be done.

"Where did you get this data?" he asked, meeting her calm grey gaze.

"Archivists are excellent researchers," she sat back in her comfortable chair. "And I know the right questions to ask people who know about budgets, plus I've already seen my department's previous budget submissions and frankly," she said, dubiously. "They were pitiful."

Palmer dropped his glasses back on the desk.

Clever, competent, beautiful and resourceful. Not to mention just the right amount of forceful. He smiled a genuine smile.

"It's going to be a pleasure working with you, Doctor Chandler," he said, opening the top drawer of his desk and selecting a small black USB. "And I'd like you to give this your earliest consideration," he said, handing it across his desk. "No need to rush with a response, but I think your analysis of the situation would be productive at the very least."

"And this is?" Grace held the tiny device between her forefinger and thumb.

"A problem," Palmer made a disagreeable face. "Hopefully a resolved problem, but still one with ripples that might affect your department," he paused. "Anything else you want to tell me at this time, or are we done for this meeting?"

"I'm wondering when you'd like the second part of the list," she said holding up another sheet of paper, a fresh smile lighting her face.

###

Fortunately, he was used to long days and short nights, and this day had been only one in a series of the same. Rubbing his eyes a little, Mycroft wondered how long the meeting with Palmer at MI5 would take. He had a sudden yen for Miso soup and knew of a perfectly charming little Japanese restaurant on the way home. That they also offered sake made from the Kimoto method was an added benefit that was neither here nor there.

After giving his brother an outline of the problem of the missing classified documentation, as well as the latest Korean twist, Sherlock was thankfully silent in the car, obviously thinking.

Lestrade was waiting in the appointed place at the appointed time and climbed into the car with considerable promptness. It was already dark and cold on the streets and the interior of Mycroft's Jaguar was warm and soft.

Nodding across the seat at the younger Holmes, the inspector rested his hands in his lap. "Planning on telling me what this is all about before we get there, or shall I start a little guessing game?" he asked, tartly.

There was a soft snort of amusement from Sherlock.

Banishing thoughts of dinner, Mycroft stared forward at the back of his driver's head. "It's about a possible thief, a possible theft and a possible ending," he said slowly. "We don't know if there even has been a crime, but evidence is pointing increasingly in that direction."

"And you want someone who knows the streets to follow the money, yes?" Lestrade wasn't a DI for nothing, even though his usual role featured heavily in homicides in the serious crimes division.

"A succinct summation, Inspector," Mycroft rubbed an eyebrow with one finger. "There are a number of pertinent details that can wait until we are in a more secure location, but on the whole, I see we are thinking along the same lines."

The Jaguar was already turning into Millbank, pulling into the kerb directly beneath a clearly marked NO STOPPING sign.

Not only cold and dark, but the edge of a late-winter's rain saw all three men striding swiftly towards the main entrance of the building.

###

Everyone else had left hours before.

Grace knew she was pushing it, but the whole thing was entirely too fascinating to stop reading, even though it was starting to get late. As she scrolled down the unwinding report on her computer screen. This was indeed a fairly massive thing to be given on the first day, but she was very glad she had persisted. That these things actually went on under the radar was like something out of a James Bond film. She wondered idly if Gerald Palmer had a code-name and if so, what it was.

Reading to the very end of the report, Grace removed the USB from her computer and locked it in her top desk drawer. There were two locks, she noted, so she found the keys for both.

Gathering her things together, she looked out of the window, scowling at the dark streaks of rain across the glass. Wrapping herself in her long coat and with her scarf around her neck to keep out any unsolicited drafts, she picked up her briefcase, turned off the lights and closed her door. Pleasingly, the lift arrived only seconds after being summoned and she made her way down to the marble foyer and hopefully a cab and home for a glass or two of red and a pizza.

Arriving at the ground floor, she noted that Jack Kelso and the younger, thin man ... Noodles ... were in the process of signing back in for the night-shift.

"Working late already?" Kelso grinned.

"Lost track of time," she gave an answering smile as she walked back out through the metal-detector. "I don't plan on making an everyday habit of it though," she added, turning to face the man while still walking backwards towards the main exit. "What time do most people get in?"

"Usually around nine or so, although you have access whenever you need it ..." Kelso paused, looking over her shoulder to the door. "Goodnight, then Doctor Chandler."

"_Grace_," she called back, waving and still heading towards the exit without looking. The young Noodles was in the process of standing, a concerned expression changing the lines of his face as she turned to face the way she was going, only to barge into a tall, unmovable body.

She bounced slightly, before stepping back, embarrassed.

"Oh, I _am_ sorry ..." she began, meeting the eyes of the man she'd just run into.

Dark blue eyes staring down at her.

Grace felt the world stop spinning for a second as she took a sharp breath.

"Hello, Mycroft."


	2. Chapter 2 Not Quite a Cold War

**Not Quite a Cold War**

_A Brief Inquisition – The Obvious Conclusion – The Vilest Creature – A Remote Player – Sherlock is Scandalised – Ganja Man – The Heavy Word – An Early Christmas – Quid Pro Quo._

#

#

It was in the lift travelling up to the top levels of the building that Sherlock first suggested something radically out of the ordinary had just taken place.

"She called you by name," he murmured, frowning at the inside of the lift doors. "Not only that, she said your name both with familiarity, as if she'd known you for some time, but also with surprise, as if you'd not met recently. She knew you and you obviously knew her," he paused, delicately, feeling his way through a profusion of rank improbabilities. "Despite the fact you addressed her by her title and surname, _Doctor Chandler_, it would have been obvious to an infant that you knew her at a social level, which means you know her given name but deliberately chose not to use it," he paused, gathering his thoughts. "One wonders at the reason behind your use of a formal greeting rather than the more social one you had both clearly exercised before tonight, unless it was because of Lestrade and myself," Sherlock frowned again. "This was the first or second day of her employment here, as was clearly evidenced when she reminded the security guards to use her first name as well as asking them what time other employees usually arrived for work, thus you couldn't have met her here before, at her place of business," he paused. "But she definitely knew you, knew you well, judging by her autonomic responses after charging into you in the foyer; the sudden intake of breath, the faint, though distinct blush-reaction as she recognised you, the pupil-dilation ..." he turned, seeking his brother's eyes. "You have known each other for some time from somewhere _outside_ of the work environment; a private ... a _social_ environment, yet you chose not to reference that fact because you were not alone," Sherlock paused again, his gaze fixed on his brother's face. "_Friends_ ..." he tasted the word. "How do you know each other as _friends_?" he asked, observing his brother's utter non-reaction and knowing with complete and absolute certainty there was more here than he'd first assumed. His thoughts flickered like a snake's tongue. "Or is it _more_ than friends?" he asked, slightly appalled. "Why did her pupils dilate, Mycroft?"

Leaning back in the corner, Greg Lestrade folded his arms and grinned, tickled, as he watched Sherlock in the process of unleashing a full-frontal inquisition on the one man in London, possibly the one man in Britain, who could remain utterly unfazed by such an assault.

"My brother has clearly been overdoing things, Inspector," Mycroft kept his hands on the handle of his umbrella and his eyes firmly on the inside of the lift's steel enclosure. I'm surprised you permit such a state of affairs to exist. I assume he's been chasing a variety of felons at all hours?" Mycroft turned to stare at the Londoner, eyebrows raised in faint reproval. "An unreasonable workload perhaps, even for one such as he?"

"Leave me out of this," Lestrade folded his arms all the tighter. "It's been a bit busy, yes," he admitted. "But nothing that would have Sherlock in the realm of hallucination, I don't think. And don't go blaming me about the mad sod's determination to solve every cold case he steals from my files," he added. "He's right though," the inspector was thoughtful, the copper in him unconsciously weighing up the evidence. He remembered a pair of clear grey eyes glancing swiftly between him and Sherlock before confining themselves to the face of Holmes the elder. "She did go a bit pink after she realised who she'd bumped into," he smiled at Mycroft. "Until then, she was only flustered she'd charged into you because she hadn't been looking where she was going. It was only _after_ she realised who you were that she blushed," he caught Sherlock's eye and winked. "Something you'd like to share with us, Mycroft?" his tone was on the edge of teasing.

A soft sigh was the elder Holmes' only response as the doors opened onto the seventh floor, permitting him to stride down the long passage towards a tall door at the very end.

###

The chill evening air felt good against the heated skin of her face as she walked through the central portal of Thames House main exit and onto the empty pavement. Fortunately the rain had stopped for the moment, leaving the sky cloudy with a half-lidded moon. It wasn't hard to spot an empty cab heading her way which slowed almost before she'd raised her hand in a hail.

_Of all people, why him? And why tonight?_

Giving the cabbie her address, Grace sank back against the cool leather and tried to pacify the swarm of thoughts and emotions bouncing around her brain. It was the unexpected nature of the encounter, she thought. The very _last_ thing she'd ever imagined was that they might – literally – bump into one another again, so what she was feeling right now was the aftermath of shock at the unexpected meeting, she rationalised. She hadn't been ready for it; she had been so focused elsewhere that she hadn't prepared herself in time. It was the sheer surprise of their meeting like this that was still causing her heart to beat so loud in her ears. She would stop this now. She would. Any moment now.

Taking a slow, deep breath, Grace forced her thoughts elsewhere. Who were the two other men? The dark-haired one on the right had looked maybe the same age or just a little younger than herself, late thirties at least, with blue-grey eyes that glittered, but the man on the other side of ... _him_, had been older; closer to fifty, with silvery-grey hair cut almost ruthlessly short above a dark hazel gaze. He had a calm face, a kind face.

"That'll be eleven pounds twenty, please miss," the cabbie leaned back toward her, a smile at her absent-minded expression.

Grace hadn't even been aware of the car's movement, let alone the journey, brief though it would have been. Digging inside her purse, she pulled out a ten and a five, handing them over without comment or further thought as she opened the door and stepped back out into the increasingly unfriendly night.

She shivered.

Only one thing to do now, she realised, waving briefly at the cab-driver before heading into the well-lit vestibule of the building. Heading up the stairs at a fast run, anything that kept her thoughts in the here-and-now, she unlocked and pushed through her front door, walking straight through into the kitchen and towards the refrigerator. Opening the door, she pulled out the very decent bottle of Krug GrandeCuvéeshe'd been saving for this day. Unwinding the metal cage with impatient fingers, Grace removed the cork with the minimum amount of fuss, pouring herself a bracing glass of the bubbly.

Swallowing too quickly, she coughed as the fizz went up her nose, making anything else difficult to think about until the burning sensation dissipated. By the time the coughing jag was done and her breathing righted, she realised her body was finally back to normal.

Pouring another glass of the frothy wine, she allowed her thoughts to retrack to the moment when ...

_Good evening,_ _Doctor Chandler_ ...

He had stood there after she'd careened into him, stood there with a detached and impersonal look of acknowledgement on his face. He'd considered her the way another person might consider a poorly parked car. He hadn't been upset or embarrassed or anything of that nature, on the contrary; he'd been utterly impassive and proper.

_The eyes_. She remembered how his gaze could enchant and confuse and exasperate her, often simultaneously.

_Alpha_ ...

_No_. Absolutely not. _No no no_. She would _not_ allow herself to think about him.

Pouring herself a third glass of the fizzy, Grace threw her coat over the back of a kitchen chair, kicked her shoes into a corner and walked into the large, uniquely-shaped lounge. Too tense to think about television or music, she wondered if food might be a better idea, but found her appetite was quite absent despite the day she'd just had. Maybe in a while, after she'd unwound. As the alcohol began to bite, her body relaxed into the dark red leather of an old chesterfield settee, Grace found her brain coming back online.

So; Mycroft Holmes was still working with the security services ... he had clearly come to Thames House for a reason; probably a meeting. With Gerald Palmer? It seemed the most likely. What was Mycroft's connection to MI5? Did he work with or for the service? What was the connection with Palmer? And who were the other two men? The dark-haired one with the over-observant eyes had stared, both men had stared, but the younger one seemed to be observing with a distinct purposefulness. She wondered what it was. The other one, the older one, had seemed much more normal; he had just watched, without seeming to judge, as she extricated herself from the collision with as much grace as she could muster.

Mycroft Holmes was still around in London and still involved with his clandestine spy stuff. He hadn't changed much, then. No doubt he'd still behave in exactly the same way as when he'd ... No, _stop_.

Grace lifted her feet in the air and wiggled her toes as she sipped the chilly champagne. Though she was calm now, she was also honest enough to admit her reaction to ... _his_ sudden appearance might be considered disproportionate.

She nodded slowly to herself and sighed. There was only one conclusion she could logically draw from this evening's oddly unsettling event, maddening though it was. To experience that level of discomfiture meant he was still under her skin to some extent; that she still felt ... something ... for him.

She sipped her wine again.

Well, that was going to have to change.

###

Deflecting his brother's interrogation with a skill born of many years practice, Mycroft found his mind racing far faster than the lift which carried them to the top floor of Thames House.

He had known Grace Chandler had every right to be in this building, and no reason to suppose their paths would forever remain separate from one another. This was an undeniable fact; his brain accepted it as a cold, logical possibility.

So why then did her unexpected and inadvertent appearance cause his entire system to freeze? He had known who the woman was, even while she was walking towards him, facing the wrong way and exchanging pleasantries with the security guards. He could have moved. He could easily have shifted out of her path, passing her by without so much as a sideways glance.

But no. Instead, his feet had felt glued to the polished marble floor; his entire body unexpectedly sluggish and unwilling to follow the direction of his thoughts.

_But why?_

As the lift travelled upwards, he allowed part of his mind to attend to Sherlock's wittering, even producing a vague verbal prod directed at Lestrade, but by far the larger stream of his thinking swirled round and around the fact that he had, quite knowingly and possibly even with malice aforethought, allowed Grace Chandler to plough into him.

_But why?_

Of course, his brother was correct. It would have been virtually impossible for anyone standing that close not to recognise her immediate physical reactions; the low gasp of shock, the swift blossom of pink at the crest of her cheeks. The horrified widening of her eyes, and yes ... the dilation of her pupils, a typical adrenalin response in moments of anxiety and fear, although there would have been no reason for her to _fear_ him, surely not? The most likely probability was shock; the almost preternatural fight-or-flight mechanism kicking in. Meeting him in such an unforeseen manner after all this time, no wonder she had caught her breath. She must still consider him the vilest creature beneath the sun.

For some reason, the idea was vaguely unwelcome, though hardly to be surprised at.

The lift arrived on the seventh floor and Mycroft strode ahead, unwilling for either Sherlock or Lestrade to witness the unfamiliar chagrin he felt tightening his face. Lestrade was too experienced a detective not to recognise such a fixed expression for what it was; his discomposure. And as for providing Sherlock with even an _iota_ more ammunition ...

Mycroft marched ahead down the long, carpeted corridor still wondering why Grace Chandler's pupils had dilated in fear. Had he repulsed her that much?

###

"And the truth of the matter, Inspector, is that we don't know," Gerald Palmer handed each of his guests a crystal tumbler of eighteen-year-old single malt. "There is always a certain amount of inconsequential data that slips away; it's incorrectly recorded and stored, or it's added onto the end of a different record; it degrades and fails ... there is always a small amount of information, both hard and soft, that will inevitably succumb to unplanned corruption of one sort or another, and yes; we have built that slippage into our calculations."

"But it would take something far more specific than just a small increase in your ... slippage ... to start considering the idea of a traitor, surely?"

Nodding, Palmer returned to his seat behind the large central desk. "Actually, it wasn't even the disappearing data that caught our attention," he said. "The information that was vanishing was relatively inconsequential in both content and dimension for anyone to notice. It wasn't until we found someone had _bought_ some of the stuff, that we understood the nature of the problem. Even now," he said, taking a bit of a deep breath, "we aren't entirely sure just what we might have lost."

"And you consider yourself a security service?" Sherlock scoffed loudly. "It's amazing you have anything left to secure at this rate."

"Yes, thank you, Sherlock," Mycroft smiled accommodatingly at MI5's Director. "My brother is a little forthright at times, Gerald," he said. "But he has a point."

Flinging the younger Holmes a sour look, Palmer returned his gaze to one of the Yard's most well-known senior officers and took a deep breath. "As I was saying, Inspector," the head of MI5 rotated the half-empty tumbler in his hand. "We aren't completely sure what might have gone missing, when it disappeared, and certainly not how, although I have a team of people tracing a number of potentially productive avenues."

"So how do you know anything's vanished in the first place?" Lestrade still wasn't entirely clear on the whole thing.

"Because information that could only have come from our archives is beginning to appear on the open market in and around London," Mycroft looked dour. "Material that could only have originated at MI5, meaning that only someone from inside the organisation would have had access to it," he paused, swirling the scotch. "I don't need to tell you what will happen to our national standing should knowledge of this situation reach the public domain. Whoever has done this may only be in it for the money, but it's an act of treachery which may also be treasonous."

"A possible traitor, then?" the silver-haired man sighed. "Not good, that."

"Not good in the slightest," Palmer exhaled loudly. "But if we go in boots and all, whoever has been dealing this material will simply go underground and lay low, and we can't afford for that to happen. We need to know who they are, who their clients are and what's being bought and sold in London."

"Which is where, I suspect," Lestrade looked between Palmer and the elder Holmes, "that I come in."

"There are in fact, _two_ clearly argued approaches in the current situation," Mycroft tapped the handle of his umbrella. "The current internal data-storage systems need both upgrades and increased security, as well as a total overhaul of all ICT in the department: with properly effective technology, it will be that much harder for anything like this to recur in the future," he paused, thinking. "Additionally, a thorough and systematic search needs to be undertaken to locate not merely the missing data, but both the dealer and clients of such an exchange," he sipped his scotch. "Anything that can be done to expedite these matters should be our first priority. We dare not risk open season on the missing classified data."

Narrowing his eyes, Palmer pulled open a drawer in his desk, bringing out several sheets of paper. Mycroft noted they had once been folded.

Handing the first sheet across the desk, MI5's senior administrator sat back and steepled his fingertips. "That do to be going on with?" he asked.

Taking the page between a finger and thumb, Mycroft scanned rapidly down the neatly handwritten text, each line a statement of intent.

"You did not write this," he said, looking back at Palmer while passing the sheet across to Sherlock.

"A woman's hand," the younger Holmes sniffed the paper, mentally cataloguing the faint scent of citrus. "A woman who knows the good stuff," he added, looking at the listed demands and lifting his eyebrows. "You have an expert in your midst."

"Our new Director of Archives, Grace Chandler, gave me that list earlier today," Palmer nodded, his smile one of private amusement. "She advised me the department had been run down into virtual uselessness, and insisted I do something about it," Palmer's smile remained as he recalled the conversation. "Doctor Chandler was quite adamant she be permitted to rectify the situation. She was rather firm."

At the sound of Grace's name, Mycroft resisted the urge to look up, especially since he knew Sherlock would be watching for any additional input in that particular area. He was entirely able to imagine the adamantine qualities of the new Archive Director. "Funds will not be an issue," he murmured, retrieving the list from his brother.

"No, the existing budget can be stretched for the fundamentals," Palmer flicked his eyes across a second sheet. "Though Chandler and her team will think Christmas has arrived far earlier than expected. The requested improvements are already in train."

"Well then if that's the internal security taken care of, what exactly, are you expecting me to do beyond these walls?" Lestrade wondered just how big an operation this might turn out to be. "You've got far more resources on call than I can possibly expect, even if I were to be able to help you out with this officially, which is something I'm wondering about, actually," the Londoner finished his scotch, replacing the heavy tumbler on Palmer's desk. "Not sure the Super would consider this the best use of my time, besides which," he hesitated, looking between Palmer and the elder Holmes. "Why me, a copper, when you have an abundance of talent in that area already in this place?"

"Don't concern yourself on that score, Inspector," Mycroft folded his hands over his crossed legs. "I've already spoken with your Commissioner and you are, as of this afternoon, seconded to special, though unspecified, duties with this agency for the immediate future," he smiled amiably. "I trust that meets your approval?"

"As if I'd have a lot of say in the matter even if it didn't," Greg was an old hand at this game. May as well give in gracefully; get the thing finished and get back to the real work. "But you still haven't said why you can't use MI5 agents; it's what they're trained to do, isn't it?"

"That is so, Inspector," Palmer acknowledged. "But we can't afford for even a breath of this to get out, and until we're sure who might be involved, then effectively everyone in MI5 is suspect, if you get my drift."

_Well that made a little more sense_, Greg realised. And hence the air of urgency; MI5 would want this cleared up pretty swiftly.

"While I concede the wisdom of the internal provisions and Lestrade's secondment, I am still at something of a loss as to why I am here," Sherlock sighed impatiently. "I do not do 'secondments', in case anyone was considering such a suggestion," he added. "Nor, as a private individual, am I required to do anything at _all_ unless I chose to do so, and until you make this sufficiently interesting for me, you can forget my involvement. This needs at least an eight on the scale and it sound more like a five or six."

Turning his head slowly, Mycroft fixed his sibling with an instructive eye. "Inspector Lestrade is to be our point-man in this, Sherlock," he said. "But I want you with him, providing an on-the-spot analysis and feedback to _me_. We are going to have to be exceptionally and strategically agile in this operation, as we have, as yet, no clear idea how wide it has become or how deep the rabbit-hole may go. Whoever is our contact on the streets will need to be quick-witted and act with due authority. Since you are, by your own admission, nothing more than a private citizen, we cannot appoint you to an _official_ task-force, nor can I empower you with any publicly sanctioned authority; that is Lestrade's role, however …" Mycroft turned to face the head of MI5. "We cannot ask the good inspector to provide us with the type of amplified analysis that may be needed in order to react with necessary swiftness, and that is to be _your_ part in this little steeplechase."

Silent for several seconds, Sherlock leaned his chin on the heel of one hand. "You want a remote player," he said.

"Precisely, Sherlock," Mycroft smiled briefly. "I need someone I can trust to make the right move even if we are not yet in full possession of all the details. If we need to step quickly, for any reason and I suspect we may, then action cannot wait upon a delayed, centralised response. We need to know who's selling and who's buying."

"And where do you suggest we seek out these various … transactions?" the younger Holmes thought about some of the less well-known _marketplaces_ in the city. Certainly not the kind of localities the average tourist might go for a souvenir.

"You want me to gallivant around London's dens of iniquity dragging this one with me?" Lestrade looked and sounded unenthusiastic. "At the very least, it'll be dangerous, and I mean guns and knives and brass-knuckles dangerous," he paused. "Not sure I fancy the idea of taking a civilian into those kinds of places."

"Oh, come now, Greg," Sherlock leaned forward. "You know I'm perfectly capable of taking care of things."

Noticing the younger Holmes had actually got his name right for once, Lestrade was also very aware of precisely how Sherlock was able to take care of…things.

"No guns," he said to the room at large. "This one gets a gun and I'm walking away, and I don't much care what you tell the Commissioner."

"There should be no need for weapons at all, Inspector," Mycroft was all sweetness now he seemed to be getting what he wanted. "You are the guide and Sherlock acts as our interim analyst based upon the situation on the ground. No guns or knives anticipated, just a quiet little saunter around town, chatting to a few old friends, asking a few questions, meeting a few people," he paused. "What serious danger could there be?"

_Plenty_, Greg thought. "Fieldwork not really your thing, is it?" he remarked.

Mycroft blinked slowly. A memory of Cambridge in early summer floated through his thoughts. "Not anymore," he said. "I am unsuited to its demands."

"So we're agreed?" Palmer looked around. "Doctor Chandler gets the new technology she wants, together with the system upgrades she deems so essential, while we simultaneously undertake a low-profile search-and-locate for any signs of the missing material in the city."

"When are you bringing her into this?" Mycroft kept his gaze on Palmer, studiously avoiding his brother.

"Already done," Gerald Palmer made a thoughtful face. "She was halfway there with her analytical criticisms even before I gave her the report," he said. "If I want this problem shut down for good from the inside, I need Chandler's total compliance. Bringing her in now seemed the wisest option."

"Very well," Mycroft amended his assessment of the situation to incorporate the new parameters. "Then she should be present for our next discussion of this matter," he said. "Especially if we expect her to monitor her own staff for undesirable activities."

"You consider that necessary?" Palmer had known there would be the possibility of this but had hoped it would never eventuate.

"You consider it anything else?" Mycroft looked bleak.

"Then I think we are done here for now," Palmer leaned back in his chair, turning to Lestrade. "How soon can you begin your investigation?"

"Tonight's as good a time as any," the silver-haired man chewed his lower lip. "There's a few places that spring immediately to mind."

"I'll need to change," Sherlock brooded momentarily. "I suggest you do too, Garvin," he added. "Your current _ensemble_ screams law-enforcement."

"Greg." It had been too good to last. "And yeah, believe it or not, that idea was in my head as well," he said. "What say we meet down at the Palm Tree in Mile End in an hour?" Lestrade checked his watch. "There's usually a few fly birds with a bit of merchandise in vans out the back; they would know the word on the street."

The meeting, it seemed, was over.

###

Dropping Lestrade outside his small house off the Edgeware Road, Mycroft sat silently in the back of the Jaguar, deep in thought.

"Your mysterious lady-friend likes lemon verbena," Sherlock noted _apropos_ of nothing.

"The handwritten list," Mycroft realised, maintaining his forward stare. "I know."

"Are you going to tell me, or shall I continue deducing?"

Closing his eyes briefly, Mycroft allowed himself a tired sigh. There really was little point attempting to keep his brother out of his private life; Sherlock had a knack for excavating the un-excavatable.

"It was nearly two years ago. A brief incursion by the GIS in Cambridge involving a valuable eastern European artefact which Doctor Chandler assisted in recovering," he said. "There was some ... collateral damage," Mycroft paused, collecting his thoughts. "I haven't spoken with her since."

"Your decision, of course," Sherlock nodded to himself. "Did she know you were Alpha? Or did you manage to conceal that little titbit of information?"

Mycroft felt the need to swallow although his mouth was dry. "She knew."

"Beta's are so predictable," Sherlock sounded almost as weary as his brother. "John maintains it's their very predictability that maintains national stability, but that's a dangerous truism."

The elder Holmes felt his heart thud as it had when he'd seen her photograph. "Doctor Chandler is not a Beta," he said.

The silence rose between them again.

"_Omega_," he added, eventually.

Sherlock experienced a sensation akin to that which the wardens might experience should the ravens ever leave the Tower of London. Not because his brother had finally admitted to a _liaison_, or even that it had clearly been of a deeply personal nature, despite its apparent brevity, but that he, an _Alpha_, had knowingly engaged the sensibilities of an _Omega_ and then permitted her to slip away. It almost never happened. It wasn't supposed to be able _to_ happen.

"Did you ..."

"Not that it's any of your business, but _yes_," Mycroft snapped. "May we change the subject now? My personal life has no bearing on the situation at hand."

"But how on earth did you manage to alienate her?" Sherlock had never heard of anyone doing such a thing. The physical chemistry between the two mutated physiologies, though the fodder of many a romantic fiction, was rarely sympathetic or entirely complementary. While at least half of the great works in English literature were written around this profound and quintessential coupling, the odds against Elizabeth and Mr Darcy becoming a permanent item were far higher than most people realised. Successful relationships between Alphas and Omegas were so atypical as to be unions of marvel. Beyond certain vocational gatherings it was almost impossible for one type to arbitrarily identify the other, especially since practices of privacy would have been followed since puberty. Thus even assuming two such partners were able to _locate_ one another in the far greater population, there was still no guarantee of forming a compatible rapport... the odds against a responsive bond were perilously high, but once _achieved_ ...

Mycroft drew a slow deep breath. If they had to have this conversation, better it be done with now, otherwise he foresaw a litany of questions and snide comments stretching endlessly into the future.

"It wasn't easy," he said, finally. "It was for her safety. If I wasn't able to protect her properly in Cambridge of all places, I had no hope of being able to do so over the longer term," he sighed, remembering. "It was for the best."

"Whose best?" Sherlock was fascinated at feeling genuinely scandalised; a rare sentiment indeed. "How did she take it?"

"Not well." Mycroft felt his face tighten with discomfort. "She was upset." _Upset_ was probably the least descriptive adjective, but it would suffice.

"And tonight was the first time you met since Cambridge?"

"The first, but unlikely to be the last," Mycroft exhaled gustily. He had the distinct feeling he had opened the door on something better left undisturbed. Too late now, however.

"Hence her reaction this evening," Sherlock nodded again in understanding. "That she didn't run screaming from the building suggests Doctor Chandler is something of a pragmatist."

"Among other things, now can we please change the subject?"

"And do you intend to continue on in this manner?" Sherlock was nothing if not determined.

"_Sherlock_ ..."

"I ask only in the spirit of brotherly interest," lifting his hands in mock surrender, the younger Holmes turned to look through the side window of the car.

This was not like his brother at all. Mycroft felt a genuine stab of concern.

###

It was well after ten when Lestrade found an empty barstool beside the central oval bar in the Palm Tree pub. Sliding onto the dark red velvet seat, he caught the barman's eye and asked for a pint of best. It was only after he'd taken a couple of sips that he started looking around the place, watchful not only for any familiar faces, but for the younger Holmes. It was busy, but not packed; the icy weather keeping all but the locals and the determined at home.

_The Palm_ was a well-known haunt for tourists in the summer months; its location right next to the canal and the park a hard-to-resist combination for both singles and families. But tonight, at the arse-end of winter, only the tried and true would be here. Greg wondered when Sherlock would arrive, and as what.

They had collaborated – as useful a word as any – in the solving of crimes for a good number of years now, but Sherlock was still a mystery in many ways. A genius, a showman and, despite his cynicism and self-indulgent tantrums, both wiser than the hills and somehow as innocent as a puppy. There was also a darkness in the man that would never be completely at ease and which turned to febrile destructiveness if not regularly acknowledged and placated.

Greg smiled around a mouthful of beer. _And then there were the bad days_.

"Got a light?" The voice came from behind his shoulder. It was unusual for anyone to be able to get that close to him unnoticed, but then, Sherlock wasn't exactly _anyone_.

"Those things'll kill you, you know," he murmured, not bothering to turn around. "And you can't smoke inside anymore, remember?"

"Worth a try," Sherlock grinned, taking the next stool along and tucking the unsmoked cigarette behind one ear.

Taking in his companion's new look, Greg resisted smiling. A disreputable character if ever there was one. Jeans so unwashed they could stand up by themselves; a faded black t-shirt underneath a fraying cream-coloured Arran jumper, topped off with a once-trendy black leather jacket and a greasy old beanie. Though Sherlock had been perfectly clean-shaved at Thames House barely an hour before, now he looked as if a meeting with a barber might solve a lot of problems. He allowed his eyebrows to lift slightly.

"Yes? And what fashion-statement are you modelling this evening?" Sherlock took the chilled bottle of Belgian beer he'd ordered and sucked a good third down.

"This is my recently divorced and looking for distraction outfit," Lestrade nodded over his pint. "I'm non-threatening, yet in the mood to kick over the traces a bit," he added. "We're a dangerous crowd, us newly divorced blokes."

There was a slight trace of bitterness in that last sentence. Though it had been several years since his wife had finally left him for another teacher at the school where she worked, Greg still felt the sting of it. It had been an unpleasant time and he had no wish to risk his carefully restored sanity again. At least, not yet. Not unless there was someone special. Though who'd want an aging London copper with creaky knees and a fondness for questionable science fiction was anybody's guess.

"Your four o'clock," Sherlock muttered, reading the fine print on the bottle's label.

Turning gently, as if to check out the solitary loop of silver gracing his companion's left ear, Lestrade focused easily on three men sitting at one of the small round tables in the far corner of the room. They were deep in conversation.

A conversation that involved samples. Of what, Greg wasn't certain, but they came in small polythene packets and vanished from sight almost as quickly as they appeared. Lestrade smiled nastily.

"That's Danny Brown and the Parson boys," he spoke into his glass. "Small-timers. Low-level drugs, usually barely enough to count as dealing. Most often they prefer to shift stolen goods; usually easy stuff from liberated cross-channel freighters, fags and the like," he said. "They might be worth having a bit of a chat with."

"Allow me," Sherlock watched the trio for a few seconds before sauntering across to the table where he stood looking down at them.

"Yeah?" The oldest of the three scowled. "You looking for sumfin'?"

Hooking a nearby chair with his foot and dragging it over, Sherlock sat down, elbows on the table, a wide grin on his face.

"Might be," he sucked down more beer. "Saw your little packets," he added. "Ganja?"

"Don't know to what you're referrin'," one of the others, clearly sitting next to his brother. One of the Parsons, in that case.

"Yeah, you do," Sherlock leaned forward. "I have plenty of cash if you're interested in shifting any of it," he said. "Specially if it's any good."

Several pairs of eyes scanned the bar, but there was nobody there that appeared threatening or even vaguely official.

"Maybe we do an' maybe we don't," the older one spoke again. "What you after?"

"At least an ounce, perhaps two," Sherlock leaned back, stretching out his long legs. "But only if it's the good stuff from Amsterdam; no soapbar hash rubbish," he added, pulling the edge of several high-denomination notes into sight from his inner jacket pocket.

The three looked at each other.

"Not in here, then mate," the eldest and probably the one Lestrade knew as Danny Brown inclined his head briefly towards the outside. "Got it in the van, like, yeah?"

"Which one?"

"Blue Toyota under the big tree," the other Parson brother leaned forward now. "Nice and private, like."

"See you out there, then," Sherlock knocked back the last of his beer before rising silently and heading towards the door. In his immediate absence, the three at the corner table scanned the crowded room for anyone else making a move to the outside, or even looking their way in a manner that might be considered overly interested. There was nothing.

After several minutes of nothing, the three left their empty glasses and headed outside, the dark and the bitter chill catching at their breath.

Sherlock was leaning against the back of the van beneath the tree, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, the thick collar of his jumper rolled up to his ears.

"Can we do this fast; it's uncomfortably cold out here," he asked.

"Let's see the colour of your money first," Parson junior sounded somewhat pugnacious.

"You've already seen my money," Sherlock stepped away from the van doors, waiting for them to be opened. "Where's the stuff and what is it?"

"Best skunk this side of the Channel, mate," Brown smiled easily, unlocking the doors. "You want a try before you buy?"

"Sounds great to me, lads," Lestrade stepped out of the deeper shadow. "Let's have a good look at what you've got in there, shall we?"

"Bloody hell, DI Lestrade, as I live an' breathe," Danny Brown tried unsuccessfully to close the van doors behind his back. An impossible task with one of Sherlock's size elevens more than adequately wedging them open.

"Come on now, Danny," Greg grinned mightily. "No need to be shy," he added, wrenching the doors open and peering inside with the assistance of a small torch held between Sherlock's fingers.

Large bundles of heavy plastic bags; several brown cardboard boxes, likewise packed with clear plastic. The pungent smell of weed was heavy and pervasive even in the chill of the night air.

"Oh my, oh _my_," Lestrade was delighted. "What _do_ we have here, then boys? A few gifts for the family from your recent cross-channel shopping trip? _Eh?_ Done a bit of early bargain hunting for next Christmas?" his voice changed to a growl as he grabbed the van's keys from Danny's unresisting fingers. "Let's go back inside and discuss what's going to happen next, shall we? It's bloody freezing out here."

Within ten minutes, the three younger men left the pub, walked swiftly to the van and drove away.

Inside, at the same corner table at which they'd sat drinking, Lestrade folded his arms and looked mildly unhappy. He wasn't keen on the direction they might have to go next. The elder of the Parson brothers had been most accommodating when it came to word on the street about people talking about other people selling information. Not that he knew many names, of course, hardly any actually in fact, but there was one.

"Frankie Troy is not the kind of man you go bothering unless you really have to," he said. "He runs an illicit cards den in Cadogan Gardens for the new yuppie crowd out in Chelsea and is a distinctly unpleasant individual."

"Can we see him tonight?" Sherlock scratched his chin. The make-up he'd used was itching.

"Not looking like this," Greg shook his head. "The heavies won't even let us past the front door looking like this," he shook his head. "Nah. We either go in waving badges or we go in as punters."

"Since this exercise is supposedly off the beaten track, then using official ingress is contra-indicated," Sherlock sighed. "Back to Baker Street to change?"

"Only if I get to stop off at my place first to grab some different gear," his head spinning, Lestrade felt like he was on some sort of mad treasure hunt.

"Then what are we waiting for?"

###

"Didn't know you had a dinner suit," sitting by the fire, John dropped his book and was staring quite openly at the newly urbane Detective Inspector standing in the middle of 221B's lounge.

"Only wear it to Met bashes at Christmas and New Year," Greg fiddled with the knot of his bow-tie. "I bloody hate these things with a passion," he groaned, looking at his image in the mirror over the fireplace. "Help."

Laughing, John swung himself up from the armchair. "Stop fussing and let me do it."

"Do what?" Sherlock finally emerged from his room, dressed and ready to go. Gone were the disreputable jeans and sneakers, the t-shirt and jumper had vanished too, as well as the old leather coat. In their place, was a Sherlock transformed. In a sleek dinner jacket and matching trousers, a crisp white shirt which clung indecently to his chest, he wore a black bow-tie that was, inevitably, a perfect work of art.

Lestrade whistled. "You look exactly like a high-class gigolo ought to look," he grinned. "Shame we're not going on the razz; I could do with a wingman like you."

"I assure you, Inspector, I would be of scant assistance. For some reason, most women seem to find me irritating; not a terribly helpful quality for the purposes of seduction, I'm told."

John sniggered. "He means well," he said, finishing Greg's tie. "You're done."

Turning to admire John's handiwork in the mirror, Lestrade was struck by a small flare of vanity. He actually didn't look half bad, despite everything.

"Sure you don't want to come with?" Lestrade felt slightly guilty about leaving the blonde man out of the fun.

"Not in this weather, thanks," John rotated his shoulder gingerly. "Damn thing aches like mad as it is; no need to make it any worse."

The cab dropped them off in a street filled with tall, elegant, red-brick buildings, each eight or nine floors high. The rain had abated somewhat.

"Frankie's joint is just down here," Greg drew his long coat closer to him; it was really cold now. Had to be near freezing.

The subtle lights of a basement bar shone out into the dark. Two well-dressed and substantially-built men stood at the top of a set of down-ward steps, their breath steamy in the still of the night.

"Evening Gents," the nearest bouncer nodded politely. "We've just opened, but the place should warm up very shortly. Have a pleasant evening." He waved them both past and down the steps.

"That seemed fairly civil," Sherlock muttered. "I thought you said this man Troy was unpleasant?"

"They're only nice to you Sherlock, when they want to take your money and are fully expecting to do so. Frankie Troy is probably not going to be quite so happy answering any questions that might possibly get him into trouble, so just be ready, okay?"

"For what?"

"For the kind of things unpleasant people do when they're unhappy."

They dropped their coats at the tiny cloakroom entrance, walking into the much larger space ahead of them. A well-stocked bar; wall-mirrors sparkling in the subtle lighting; a scattering of small tables with equally small table-lamps. Only a few were occupied at present and Lestrade looked around for whoever was floor-manager tonight. He spotted a likely character over by the bar. Dark suit, flashy tie.

"I'll go organise us a drink," he said, strolling over, deliberately catching the man's eye. "I'd like to speak with Frankie when he's got a minute," Greg smiled in a friendly way. "Before it gets busy might be a good idea."

Flashy tie smiled back, though not quite so friendly.

"Mr Troy doesn't see strangers during club hours," he said, sniffing.

"Just as well I'm not a stranger in that case, isn't it?" maintaining his smile, Lestrade leaned a little closer. "Go tell Frankie that Greg Lestrade would like a word."

"And if I don't?"

"When Frankie finds out you got in my way, he's going to be a little bit miffed," Lestrade spoke very softly with the same gentle smile. "Possibly even vexed," he added. "Off you go."

Returning to the table and Sherlock with – what the hell, it was a stylish club – _martinis_, it was inevitable that the younger Holmes was already bored.

"Health and safety people would have a field day in here," he said. "In less than a minute I've been able to identify no less than seventeen breaches of the Public Safety Act that could have this placed closed down inside the hour."

"Really?" Lestrade grinned. "How inconvenient that would be," he nearly laughed. "I'm sure Frankie Troy would be devastated."

A shadow fell across the table. It was flashy tie.

"Mr Troy invites you and your friend to join him in his private office," he nodded at a small door to the left of the bar. "Now would be convenient."

"Then let's not keep your benefactor waiting," Sherlock was already on his feet, knocking back the clear drink in a single swallow. Not to be outdone, Greg did the same, only just managing not to embarrass himself coughing to death as the gin and vermouth went down the wrong way.

"_Jesus Christ_," he squeaked, fighting to stop his eyes blurring.

Frankie Troy was a big bloke. Well over six-feet, he lounged expansively behind a huge ornate desk, his bespoke dinner suit sheathing his muscular form in a very expensive-looking way, white teeth flashing brilliantly in his dark face.

"_Gregory Lestrade_," he grinned. "I haven't seen you since you had me up in court for that misunderstanding with the Danish barman," he said, lighting a cigarette with a chunky gold lighter before waving at the box of expensive smokes on his desk. "Help yourself."

"Thank you, no," Lestrade remained upright and unswayed, though Sherlock felt less restraint.

"Custom-made Virginia blend," he took one, approvingly. "Too rich for my pocket but appreciated, nonetheless." He accepted a light from the gold block and inhaled deeply.

"So what can an honest merchant of life's pleasures do for an old friend this evening?" Troy sucked down a lungful of the fragrant smoke.

"Wanted to talk to you about word on the street regarding the market for any kind of _special_ documentation," Lestrade allowed his hands to rest in his pockets. "_Really_ special," he added.

"Documents? What kind of documents?" Troy squinted. "And why should I be interested no matter how _special_ they might be?"

"Classified stuff. In case they start coming through your front door," Greg shrugged. "Wouldn't want you to lose your bar-licence, or," he turned lazily to catch Sherlock's eye. "What were those public safety infringements you saw? Nearly _twenty_ of them? _Tut tut_," he turned back to look reprovingly at the big man. "That's a bit naughty, Frankie, and you know how fine and upstanding a law-officer I can be."

Inhaling slowly, with one eye closed, Troy allowed a spiral of smoke to flow around him for a few seconds. "That sounds an awful lot like a threat," he paused, thoughtfully. "Sure you want to do that?"

"You know me, Frankie," Lestrade grinned. "Not much for making threats. Now _promises_, however, _promises_ are my stock-in-trade. I'm known for the weight of my promises, aren't I?" he turned to Sherlock.

"Known for them," the younger Holmes nodded cheerfully. "The inspector, though desperately ineffectual in many areas of his life is quite true to his threat," he added, candidly. "Or his promise, as the case may be."

Holding the smouldering cigarette away from his head, Frankie Troy narrowed his eyes, weighing up the benefits and risks of co-operation.

"Might've heard a whisper," he said, eventually. "Maybe. Coupla of weeks ago there was word about a meeting going down with some exclusive dudes from a very hot place, with palm trees and camels and stuff."

"Date palms, I think you'll find," Sherlock finished his smoke. "Torquay has palm trees. When people think about trees in the Middle East, it's usually _date_ palms they visualise."

"Yeah, whatever," Troy turned back to the older man. "Really rich dudes," he added. "Not here for the casinos or the girls, even though one of 'em came in and splashed a few grand around; his heart wasn't in it, you could tell."

"And what makes you think these men had any information relating to the sale of classified information?"

"'Cos while they might not be interested in cards or the girls," Troy grinned a wide grin. "They surely enjoyed the good stuff I keep behind the bar for the high-rollers," he said, laughing softly. "Not used to it, they ain't," he said. "Half-a-bottle of decent brandy inside 'em and they're singing like little larks, they were," he laughed. "They shoulda stuck with the cards."

"And this singing included a few lines about a shopping trip, I take it?" Lestrade leaned back against the wall and folded his arms. "And where might we find these two larks?"

"Assuming they're even still in London, I think they had us charge their account to a suite at Hotel 41."

"What, the one opposite the Royal mews?" Greg revised his initial thoughts about how rich the 'dudes' might have been. Hotel 41 was for the excessively well-heeled only. "Get any names while you were listening to all this melodic performance?"

"One of them was called 'Najjar', I think, but no idea about the other one."

"Then we'll just go and have a bit of a chat with the hotel manager," Lestrade was already moving towards the door, when he paused and turned back. "And if you hear anything more from these two songbird, you will make sure to give me a call, won't you, Frankie?" Greg was all smiles. "You know how much I'd like to keep you honest merchants of life's pleasure in business."

"Yeah," Troy's smile was a little artificial. "I just bet you do."

Wrapping up in their heavy coats and once more back on the dark and rainy pavement, they debated getting a cab to one of London's most expensive hotels to continue the hunt.

"At this time of the night," Lestrade looked at his watch. "Morning, rather," he corrected himself. "I seriously doubt anyone we're going to want to talk to will still be on deck; the night people, sure, but I don't expect they'll have a great deal to tell us. We need to speak to the daytime staff," he paused. "Plus it's getting really cold and I've had a long day. What say we adjourn and start again around eight tomorrow morning?"

A black cab approached and slowed at the inspector's hail.

"Drop me off at Victoria Station," Sherlock sounded deep in thought. "There's a couple of people I'd like to catch up with before tomorrow," he said, winding his scarf high up around his face.

Sensible people were long at home and in bed, but the night was not yet over for him.

###

Despite it being early March, the weather was still bitter, with grey, scudding clouds and a forecast of possible snow. Temperatures were in the infant class. Fortunately, when she had commissioned the architect who designed her apartment, Grace had insisted on a few high-quality basics, and a decent heating-system was one. Discreet, gas-ducted central heating kept the entire place perfectly cosy and a series of solar-panels installed around her specifically modified glass bedroom ceiling ensured endless hot water, even on a day like today.

Selecting neat black woollen trousers and a long-sleeved silky knit over a black t-shirt, Grace decided to brave the distance to work on foot and get some exercise. Putting her dress shoes inside a plastic bag, she hauled on a thick pair of socks and then her trainers, before donning her long heavy coat, a dense cream shawl and black leather gloves. Pulling a black felt hat down over her ears, she felt ready for just about anything as she headed down the stairs to the front door.

The sharpness of the early morning air caught her breath and burned its way down to the bottom of her chest. Her toes were already feeling the chill from the ice-cold pavement. The sooner she got a move-on, the sooner she'd feel warmer. Setting off at a fair clip, she was on Upper ground Street in minutes, passing behind the National theatre and the Southbank Centre as she headed into Belvedere Road. From there, it was straight on down between Lambeth Palace gardens and the river, until she hit Lambeth Bridge. Turning left at the roundabout, her new place of work was all lit up on the dark and wintery morning. She felt happy and excited; itching to get to grips with the new problems.

"Morning Gentlemen," she called, waving to Noodles and Winston as she waltzed up to the security gate and through with barely a pause.

"Lovely day for it." Winston grinned back at her.

"Lovely day for what?" she asked, baffled.

"You'll see!" The security guard's chuckle followed her all the way to the lift.

Heading down the long passageway, swinging her briefcase and whistling, she came to an abrupt halt in sight of the main entrance to her new department. Not only was the main door wide open, but there were all sorts of stuff stacked along both walls of the corridor; ladders; rolls and rolls of data cable; unopened cardboard boxes of all shapes and dimensions. Men in grey overalls were shuttling in and out, carrying furniture; equipment, huge coils of plastic conduit.

Managing to avoid the human obstacles, Grace eased her way through the door and had a real fight not to burst out laughing. The entire place looked like a bomb had gone off. In one corner there was a pile of boxes, each one labelled with the brand of a very good computer company. The long central table with its dreadful throne had already been removed, and a medium-sized circular interactive unit left in its place, the quartet of central monitors arranged in such a way that no matter where one sat, everyone could see what was being displayed. There was a specialised Wi-Fi server sitting on top of its own box with a technician running some tests.

Turning to peer through the open doors of the various offices around her, Grace saw that this same upheaval was taking place throughout the entire department.

"What the bloody hell's going on?" Shane Meath barely avoided being crushed by a new desk being brought through the door. He walked in, a dazed expression on his face.

Trying very hard to look as if everything was happening according to some great and mysterious central plan, Grace unbuttoned her coat and looked concerned.

"Is there a problem, Mr Meath?"

Something in her tone made his turn and look. "Is this all your doing?"

"I had a brief chat with Gerald Palmer yesterday and gave him our list," she said. "I also explained how the budget could be massaged into next year's funding round ... apparently it sounded the right note," Grace shrugged. "Although I had no expectation we'd see this level of development so soon," she looked around as yet more new furniture and ergonomic seating was brought into the department. "I wonder what his _quid pro quo_ will be," she added, mostly to herself. She had never known such largesse come without all manner of strings in private industry and she very much doubted it would be any different in the public sector. _Ah well_; whatever was going to happen was going to happen.

"In the meantime, I suggest you go and take everything off your computer and out of your old desk before they get carted away," she nodded towards his office where men in grey overalls were beginning to gather.

His eyes widened. "The kids' photos!" Meath dashed into his office.

Hanging up her coat and shawl, Grace swapped her shoes and wondered where she went to get some tea.

"Are you the Good Fairy or something?" Colly wrapped himself around the edge of her office door. "Did you have to sell a kidney or do you have something really juicy on the Director?" he asked, a huge grin across his face. "The place is an incredible mess and it's brilliant," he added. "Tea?"

"Oh _yes_ please," Grace looked suitably longing. "But you're going to have to show me where everything is so I won't die of thirst when you go on leave."

There were further sounds of surprise as the rest of the team arrived. Heading back out, Grace asked one of the technicians which one of them was looking after the new phones. Nodding his head at a couple of guys examining a reel of blue cable, Grace touched Stratford's elbow and beckoned him across the room with her.

"Gentlemen," she caught the technicians' attention. "When you're installing the new phone-system and you need to check any details in regards to placement, location or function, can you please liaise with Stratford here?" she smiled. "He's our user-testing expert," she added. "He knows what we need," she smiled at the Archivist's sudden look of panic. "Make sure you get it just the way we need it," she whispered in his ear. "Take no prisoners."

Patting the older man gently on the shoulder, she left the fate of the phones in the hands of the one person she knew would be looking for the most problems.

In the meantime it was difficult to actually do any work since the entire department was in an uproar. After the talk she'd had the previous day with Gerald Palmer, Grace felt it would be somewhat ungracious to complain about the lack of notice. Thus by lunchtime, pretty much everyone was hanging around unable to do anything since almost all of their systems were down.

Except one.

A pile of funky wireless keyboards had appeared on the central round table, giving her an idea. "Everyone like Chinese?" she shouted, her fingers already on her phone, dialling. "Too late now," she shouted a few seconds later, already placing an order.

Colly danced up. "Okay," he looked wary. "Where is it?"

"Where's what?" Grace smiled. The boy was happy; she could see it in his face, in the way he held himself. It was a good day for him.

"Your magic wand," he grinned. "At the risk of being impolite, there's not a lot of places you could keep it, so I'm curious."

Staring at the young redhead, as if she wasn't quite sure she'd heard correctly, Grace felt her eyes go wide. "You are extraordinarily impertinent," she snickered. "And I wouldn't tell you in any case."

"Need me to do anything?" Colly beamed. There were several large boxes of supplies marked for his attention and he couldn't wait to find out what was inside.

"Yes, there is, actually," Grace nodded at the door. "Go down to reception and wait for lunch to be delivered. It's all paid for, just bring it up here and we can eat," she looked around. "Not much else we can do at the moment."

"Sure thing, Boss," the young man almost saluted before sauntering out the door.

"Okay, people," Grace raised her voice to be heard. Everyone looked, including the various men in grey. "_My_ people," she clarified.

Magda and Ruth, heads together over a software user-manual looked up. Stratford, overseeing the phone-techs, turned around; and Shane, in his office, directing the installation of his new computer, stuck his head around the door.

"What?" he demanded, grinning madly. "I'm in the middle of playing with new toys; this better be important."

"Got even better toys to play with over here," Grace sounded arch. "If any of you think you can beat me, that is," she added, dubiously. "Which I doubt."

"Oh yeah?" Meath walked over to look at the assembled hardware.

In the few minutes she'd had waiting, Grace had connected the main computer at the interactive central station to the internet and gone to one of her favourite online games, which she'd downloaded and set up for multiple players.

"Three-dimensional Minesweeper," she announced, cheerfully. "Just the thing to get us all used to the new tech," she smiled as Colly re-appeared with several heavy plastic bags. "Lunch is on me, but only if you get all my ships before I get all of yours."

"Prepare to die horribly," Shane Meath laughed joyously as he commandeered a keyboard and a plastic plate.

Lunch was a hard-fought battle, partly because Grace really was good at the game, having played it many times before, and partly because she knew how to cheat.

Colly had dropped out first, laughing too much to focus, followed by Stratford who was content to sit back and watch the demise of the others. In the end, it came down to Grace, Shane Meath and Magda Borowski. Watching the two of them conspiring to defeat her, Grace realised two things.

First, Magda Borowski was an Alpha just as much as Shane; she was just a little better at concealing the fact. The second thing she realised is that the two Alphas in her team worked very well together, even if their present objective was to wipe her off the board.

Finishing off the prawn crackers, Grace grinned unpleasantly as she found the last of Shane's subs. With a swift double-hit, she saw him close his eyes in abject defeat.

"Looks like I get a free lunch," she clapped her hands together delightedly at the same moment that Magda's expression lit up as she took her turn and pressed three consecutive keys.

Grace's remaining three destroyers vanished in a puff of pixels.

"Argh!" she sat back, disbelieving, jaw dropping. "No fair!"

Taking the final crispy crab claw from its greasy resting place, Magda smiled in a most superior manner. "A little overconfident, perhaps?" she laughed, relaxing back in the chair and taking a swig of lukewarm Chinese tea. "That was a lot of fun. We must do it again, sometime."

"Only when I can find a game you're no good at," Grace grudged, wiping her hands as she logged off. "But it was fun."

"Here you go, Boss," Shane threw a tenner onto the table.

"It's all be paid for, so no need for that," she pushed the cash back at him. "You lot can get the next lunch we have it delivered."

"You think there'll be another time?" Ruth Lannagan sounded doubtful, as if today had been a one-off; something special and therefore rare.

"At least once a week if we can manage it," Grace suggested. "We need downtime as a team," she added. "And I need to reassert management superiority by whatever means available, inclusive of bribery and cheating."

Her mobile rang and she moved away to take the call. It was Palmer. Grace walked into her office.

"I'd like you to join me for a review of the information I gave you last evening," he said. "If you've had an opportunity to go through it?"

She had been expecting the call, though perhaps not this soon. The matter was clearly pressing. "Certainly, Gerald," she was more than ready. "When?"

"Let's make it four-thirty this afternoon," he sounded a little tired and she wondered if he had been burning the midnight oil. "My office," he added, ending the call.

Had she thought about the information he'd handed her on the black USB? Only about a hundred times since she first read the report.

At first blush, it looked very much as if her predecessor had been involved and Grace wondered if this was so, and possible the reason she now had the position instead of him. She also wondered who else might have been involved; this seemed to be a very complex set-up for only one person to manipulate. And of course, the very next question she had was to wonder who else in her new team might have been involved along with him.

The notion left her feeling uncomfortable and wishing there were an alternative explanation. It was likely Palmer would want to know her thoughts on this; maybe he'd have some other difficult questions for her too.

_Ah well_. There was always going to be a _quid pro quo_ for getting what she asked for.

Telling everyone to leave whenever they wanted, as their systems were certainly not going to be ready before the end of the day, Grace wished them all a pleasant evening and a good night's sleep as they would undoubtedly be working flat-out in the morning.

At precisely four-twenty-nine, she walked into Palmer's outer office, smiling at his assistant.

"The Director said for you to go straight in, Doctor Chandler," the assistant smiled, waving her hand at the closed, leather-clad door.

Taking a deep breath, she turned the handle and stepped into the inner sanctum, expecting to see Gerald sitting behind his desk.

What Grace did not expect to see sitting on the visitor's side of the desk was Mycroft Holmes.

Her heart gave an excellent impression of sinking.

_Shit_.

"Gerald," she smiled calmly. "Mycroft," she added, not looking at him.

"You know each other?" Palmer glanced between them. Grace adopted a noncommittal expression and said nothing. Let Mycroft explain.

"Doctor Chandler assisted my department two years ago in the recovery of a lost Russian icon," his face was blank and his voice as inexpressive as a grey wall. "It was a brief operation."

A brief operation_._ Grace felt her stomach clench in latent reaction. _A brief operation?_ Was that how he remembered Cambridge?

"Mycroft is too charitable," she smiled brightly as she took another chair. "My part was minor and insignificant; I'd almost forgotten about it," she said, bringing up the report on her tablet "This makes interesting reading," she added, indicating the electronic device. "I have a number of questions."

"Such as?" Palmer left the intriguing revelation that his new Archive Director and the informal head of British Security, Mycroft Holmes, clearly disliked one another, leaned back in his seat and looked interested.

"Wouldn't you rather finish what you were discussing before I came in?" she met his eyes with the question.

"We were waiting for you," Mycroft announced stiffly.

"In that case, I'll jump in," ignoring the man seated beside her, Grace turned her attention back to the notes she'd made. "Although I anticipate you'll have raised most of these issues already."

"Continue," Palmer covered the faintest of grins with his hand. She really didn't like Holmes one little bit.

"First and obvious question," she looked only at her Director. "Can you prove who did this? Substantive proof is going to be needed for any successful legal action."

"Not yet," Gerald Palmer shook his head. "Though we have a fairly clear suspect and are currently investigating his possible methodologies."

"In that case, my next questions are how long has it been since this started and what has been taken?"

There was a little silence.

Grace waited, realising something here was problematic.

"Sometime within the last six-to-twelve months is all we know for certain," Mycroft's voice grated quietly to her right. "And the only way we know what has been taken thus far is because items are appearing sporadically on the black market."

The knowledge that someone had been _selling_ classified material from MI5's archive – from _her_ archive – outraged Grace so much, she forgot she wasn't speaking to him and turned to meet Mycroft's gaze. "What kind of items?" she asked, appalled. "Anything sensitive?"

"You mean top secret?" Palmer sighed. "Not that we know of, or, at least," he paused. "Not yet."

"We're tracking both the source of the information and the buyers," Mycroft observed the honest and unguarded shock in her eyes and remembered how easily Grace Chandler wore her emotions on her sleeve. She was too open and candid to consider any point in concealing such a reaction. He warmed a little inside. Whatever happened with the archive in the future, there would never be the same level of shrouded suppression; she was too direct to permit that.

"Which is why we've brought you in at this point, despite the fact that you've only been here twenty-four hours," Palmer leaned forward on his desk. "There's one more avenue we need to investigate, and that's the remaining team."

Grace felt a cold wave wash through her. She had known this might be on the books, but had hoped very much it wasn't.

"You're asking me to spy on my own team?" she swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

"Yes," Mycroft hadn't moved, but was watching her face intently. If she couldn't hold it together in here, she'd never be able to handle the real situation with real people.

Letting comprehension flow through her mind, Grace took a sharp breath and sat back in her chair, her fingers steepled in front of her as she thought.

_It was a logical consequence. It was something she herself might have suggested. To not do this was to blindly ignore the obvious. This was not about her feelings_.

"Yes," she lifted her eyebrows as she thought her way through the problem. "Of course you are."

"I realise this isn't the most comfortable way forward ..." Gerald Palmer began by way of mitigation.

"No; it's alright, really it is," Grace tilted her head and smiled a little wanly. "It's the obvious thing to do. I'll come up with some ideas on the most effective way of logging their activities and behaviour," she added. "My weakness here, of course, is that they're all new to me so I won't be able to notice if they start behaving differently as I have no pre-existing baseline."

"You agree to do this?" Mycroft was still watching her carefully. For some reason, he wanted her to argue against it; for her to say she wasn't going to involve herself in this morally questionable activity.

Lifting her eyes, she looked deep into the dark blue gaze and nodded.

As those wide grey eyes held his, Mycroft felt the same sluggish heaviness overtake him as he'd experienced last evening down in the foyer. It was as if his insides were momentarily in a different time-zone. Baffled, he forced himself to breathe slowly until the sensation left. Perhaps there was some issue with his blood-pressure or diet. He'd ask Anthea to make an appointment for him with his private medico.

"It may not be for long, in any case," Palmer relaxed, tapping a thumb against his lower lip. "As soon as we have a clearer idea who's behind all of this, we can go back to business as normal."

_Business as normal._ Grace said nothing. She already knew if any of her new team caught even a whiff of her watching any one of them, that she'd eventually have to give up the Director's position. Nobody could respect someone who'd agreed to spy on them. She wouldn't, and she had no right to expect others to behave any differently.

Still; she'd do what might be done to resolve the current problem and then see how the land lay.

"My department is in an uproar with all the system upgrades and new tech coming in, so I've told them all to head home early as we'll have a lot of catch-up to begin tomorrow," Grace stood. "As I foresee a long day for me as well, then I'll do the same. I'll have my suggestions for the necessary scrutiny to you in the morning," she added. "Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?"

"Not at present, Grace," Palmer allowed his mouth to curve in a genuine smile. Not only extraordinarily easy on the eye; smart, clever and adaptable, but she understood the way the place needed to work. _Yes_, he thought. Grace Chandler was exactly the sort of woman he needed in his senior team. _Perhaps he should take her out to dinner when all this was over ..._

Also rising to his feet, Mycroft picked up his umbrella and coat.

"I have the car outside," he spoke carefully, diffidently, even. "Might I offer you a lift home? It's already nearly dark."

"Thank you, no," she smiled briefly before turning away and heading for the door. "I have no need of any lift."

In her office, after changing her shoes back to her trainers, Grace debated whether to bother locking up the disaster that she was leaving here; in the end she shrugged and left her door open. There was nothing in there worth getting precious about just yet, and as she had no working hardware, then locking anything was a moot point. Closing the main door to the Archives Department behind her, Grace walked slowly along to the main bank of lifts, before taking the first one to arrive down to the foyer.

Even though it was dark, the way home was along main roads and well-lit. She'd walked home from Essex Street many times in weather worse than this.

Heading across the marble floor, she waved goodnight to the security chaps before stepping outside into the cold March weather. It had been raining and it looked as if there was more on the way. The wind was icy and would probably get worse. Wrapping the heavy scarf around her neck, Grace slid into her gloves and pulled her hat tighter onto her head as she prepared to race home. She could probably jog most of the way.

"It really isn't a good idea for you to be walking home tonight," Mycroft's voice was quiet yet clearly audible as he stepped away from the shelter of the wall. "The forecast is for sleet and possible snow." He pointed at the waiting Jaguar with the ferrule of his umbrella. "You could be home and dry inside eight minutes," he suggested.

It would be so easy to accept, Grace realised. So easy and so entirely wrong.

"Thank you, no," she realised she must sound dismissive, but she didn't really care. "I have no desire to have anything whatsoever to do with you outside of work," she added, meeting his eyes. "Please go away and leave me alone."

Shouldering the strap of her briefcase, she headed down Millbank towards Lambeth Bridge at a swift pace, both the road and the pavement virtually empty save for people such as herself heading home after work. This was not an evening to dawdle.

By the time she'd reached the pedestrian crossing up by the roundabout, her hands were already feeling warmer as her blood began circulating briskly.

Looking around before she crossed the road, she saw the shiny black Jaguar coasting along behind her.

It was so infuriating, she almost laughed.

Ignoring the car and its passenger, she crossed the road and headed across the bridge towards Southbank. She'd take the stairs down to the embankment walk; no cars could come that way.

Once she hit the broad embankment walk, she started to jog. Holding her case in her arms, she got up to a nice loping run before the heavens opened and a deluge of icy, blowing rain met her face-on. She hadn't dressed for such a downpour, nor did she even have a brolly with her. Too late now to worry about it, she thought, as she reached the point where she had to get back onto Westminster Bridge road.

The Jaguar was waiting several feet ahead. As she made to pass, the rear door opened.

"Get in, Grace," his voice was still quiet, but vaguely amused. "We don't have to converse if you'd rather not."

A fresh blast of icy wind pushed a growing chill up her wet trouser legs.

"Are you planning to follow me all the way home?" she stood beside the open door.

"Do you really need to ask? Now please get in; it's freezing out there and I have no wish to catch my death of pneumonia."

A fresh surge of wintery rain tipped the balance and she dragged herself inside the car's warm interior, pulling the door closed behind her. Drops of rain scattered from her coat.

"This makes no difference to my desire to have nothing to do with you," she said, staring fixedly out of the side window. "I will do what's needed for my job, but that's it."

"And what if we need to discuss work-related matters outside the workplace?"

He was mocking her, she knew.

She almost hated him in that moment.

Fortunately, the car was already pulling into Bridge House Street. Without waiting for it to completely stop, she had the door open and was on her way out. Slamming it closed behind her, she stormed into the building and up the stairs, fumbling with the keys of her apartment until she was safe inside. Dumping coat and bag and trainers in the ruby-lit vestibule, she stamped into the kitchen where she banged the kettle around, filling it with water to boil for tea. After that, she snatched at a mug, missed, snatched at it again and dropped it to the floor where it cracked clean in half. In a sudden fit of pique, she kicked the broken sections to the nearest wall, hurting her sock-clad toe and bringing a sting of tears to her eyes.

"_Damn it all!_" Staring down at the hapless pieces of china, Grace felt herself go woozy with ... what? _Anger?_ Impotent frustration?

Leaning against the kitchen bench top and breathing hard, holding the cold skin of her face in both hands, she knew, with startling clarity, that she dare not have anything more to do with Mycroft Holmes. If he still had this effect on her ... if she was too weak-willed to control her reactions ... then there was only one thing left for her to do.

She had to find herself another man.

###

In the Jaguar, Mycroft had watched the blonde woman's furious exit from his car and comprehended with some finality, that she truly despised him. That was good; it would make it easier to dismiss her from his thoughts.

_Omega_.

A single raindrop had landed on the back of his left hand when she climbed in beside him and he raised it, unrealising, to his mouth and licked it away.


	3. Chapter 3 Unexpected Complexities

**Complexities of An Unexpected Nature**

_Looking For Trouble – An Unusual State of Affairs – A Meeting of Consequence – Chemistry – An Inspector Calls – The Nice One – Poulet au Citrone – No Place For a Lady – Transformation – The Bluff – An Empty Night._

#

#

After a restless night where her thoughts leaped from one problem to another and back again, Grace sat in her kitchen in the grey morning light, sipping hot tea. She was reasonably satisfied she had thought of a way forward which allowed her to do her job _and_ to keep at least a fragment of moral integrity, if only in her own eyes.

She knew Palmer would agree to all her surveillance suggestions; the ones she was going to tell him about, anyway. Since virtually every piece of new information was digitised before classification and storage these days, then all illegal transmission of materials would be necessity have to be electronic; either sent directly from some internal server to another, or via the internet in some way, or downloaded onto a storage device and taken out in a physical sense. Grace realised she couldn't do all that much about the physical checks; she have to leave that to the usual security devices and the internal cameras which everyone knew about. She would ask for a trace on every phone, including her own; individual email logs; real-time processing of browser activity; the shadow-broadcast of all virtual meetings, and logging of all software interactions including printing. But Grace had decided she also wanted to tackle the problem from both ends, so to speak, and find out more about the missing classified materials. So far, there had been precious little detailed information forthcoming in that area. If she wanted to provide any real support against her Director's obvious desire for a swift, and possibly radical conclusion to the problem, and if Gerald Palmer and Mycroft Holmes wanted confirmation there was a traitor in her team, _then she wanted confirmation that there_ _wasn't_.

But how? And even more importantly, how to do it in a very short time?

The idea appeared out of the blue, but once it formed in her mind, it seemed entirely logical. She would find out herself what information was being traded around London and she would try and track at least one of the documents down to a specific buyer and whoever sold it to them. Perhaps if she could find a lead towards the purchaser, the powers-that-be might be able to do something official with the information. Palmer had told her investigations were underway in the search for the missing material, but perhaps she might have an advantage in this area which she could put to good use.

After working for some time in the rare and often unethical rare document market, but also, and more importantly, in the _legal_ industry, Grace had accumulated a fair number of friends in low places.

Some of them in very low places indeed.

In fact, some of her most useful contacts were currently guests at Her Majesty's pleasure in various forms of custody, but Grace knew of several ... sources who were alive and well and gadding freely around the city. It was one of these individuals that she wanted to talk to now. The image of a face formed in her mind.

An older man; thinning hair the colour of a winter cloud, face permanently brown and wrinkled from working most of his life on the docks. Short and stocky with scarred hands and a less than genteel turn of phrase.

_Timmy Dobson_. Man of mystery and light fingers; honorary granddad to umpteen East End kids; friend to forgers and wideboys and with a scholar's true passion for beautiful manuscripts and ancient writings. Timmy was also a lifelong supporter of The Grapes Pub, a sixteenth-century riverside watering hole in Limehouse. But whereas the tourists, the hipsters and the rising young financial wizards of nearby Canary Wharf sat pontificating upstairs in the sunlight by the linen-clad tables, eating grilled tofu and roasted cashews, Timmy and a select few friends sat downstairs in a small stuffy room marked _Private,_ drinking slow pints of very dark ale and playing endless games of Cribbage.

Grace had once been in that room and had drunk a pint of the bitter brew with Timmy as, between them; they had carefully crafted a way to defeat a rival American buyer for the quill-written deathbed confession of a Virginia Colonist. In their plan's success, they had wrought the beginnings of a lifelong friendship and gentle conspiracy against a great many things of a legal persuasion.

And now she needed his assistance once again. If anyone would have heard of classified documents or papers being sold on the QT in the city, it would likely be him, not that Timmy would have anything to do with the selling of British secrets. His Union Jack tattoo may have been invisible, but it sat big and bold on his arm, nevertheless.

At mid-morning, she closed her office door and rang The Grapes asking if she could leave a message for a Mr Dobson to the effect that she would be calling at the pub that evening around five in the hope of a private meeting. It was the only way Grace had of contacting the man; he was very protective of his privacy was Timmy, and she couldn't really fault him for that.

Thus, after spending a good chunk of the following day at Thames House setting up her own computer and assisting Stratford to wrangle his own software preferences into shape, as well as getting everyone to go through the online tutorial for the new archival software, the day was shot. Telling the team to head off early again but to be ready to make up the hours once all the systems were in full-throttle, Grace sat waiting until everyone had gone.

So much had changed in only two days.

Much of the pre-existing department furniture and old storage units had gone, replaced by new modular pieces, each configured to house the very latest in technical marvels. Every member of her team had up-to-the-minute hardware and software systems and all the support they could wish for. Stratford had his new phone-system; the setting-up of which had made him inordinately proud. Colly was in the process of devising new methods by which he could maintain the current level of supplies and perceived status for the department. And now that Shane had rescued and reinstalled the several photographs of his children onto his new computer, he and Magda had come up with a couple of intriguing ideas on shortcutting processing times for backlogged materials awaiting classification, registration and storage.

Everything seemed so upbeat and optimistic that Grace found it very difficult to accept that anyone in her team might be involved in a conspiracy to sell information to foreign buyers, let alone harbour any genuinely treasonous ideas.

It was still fairly early as she left Thames House that afternoon and grabbed a cab to take her to Limehouse and, hopefully, a meeting with the one man who might be able to help her start believing there wasn't a traitor lurking in the MI5 Archives.

###

Sauntering into the inner sanctum, Anthea flipped through the printed versions of several reports as she usually did in order that she might offer a synopsis if required. Himself preferred written reports when possible; he said printed words gave his brain something concrete on which to focus. Apparently, words on a screen provided insufficient traction and decelerated his thinking.

A name popped up that she hadn't heard for some time. _Grace Chandler_. Now _that_ was an interesting coincidence. Mycroft Holmes, Defender of the Realm, Protector of the Great British Public and a man for whom she held no little respect and affection, had, since yesterday, twice been caught staring out of the window in his office as if the sky itself offered a philosophy of which advantage might be taken. This was a fairly unusual state of affairs and worthy, Anthea felt, of further investigation.

"I see you've been meeting with Doctor Chandler again," she tested the waters cautiously, her eyebrows slightly raised. "Any problems there I should know about?"

Turning to meet her eyes, the fingers of one hand supporting his chin, Mycroft was momentarily distant. He smiled faintly as his thoughts returned from whatever far-off place they had been visiting. "Not a thing," he said. "You anticipate trouble?"

Anthea shrugged. "You didn't part well after Cambridge," she looked thoughtful. "I like to be prepared for any contingency, so you will let me know, won't you?"

"Know what?" a small frown arrived between his eyes.

"Tell me if there's anything I need to know about you and Doctor Chandler," she said, smiling guilelessly. "Just in case."

"Really, you're speaking in riddles today," he scowled for a second before his face cleared. "She's the new Director of Archives at MI5," he said sounding introspective. "I'm sure she'll be a credit to the service." His words tailed off as he pursed his mouth and returned to the window.

Yes, Anthea nodded slowly to herself. An unusual state of affairs indeed.

###

Hotel 41 was just as glitzy as the last time Lestrade had cause to visit, lacking in nothing to please the jaded eye. Acres of hand-crafted marble flooring; pillars of polished Etruscan stone, gilded and roccoco'd to within an inch of their lives. All carvings were rainforest hardwood and the carpets all hand-knotted Persian and exorbitantly lavish. Polished, gleaming glass and brass added another layer of hushed, moneyed opulence. There was every single thing the weary traveller might yearn after.

The only thing missing was a certain couple of gentlemen from the land of date-palms.

By the time he and Sherlock met up in the hotel's lobby the following morning and chased down the Day Manager – who escorted them swiftly into his private office lest their conversation affront the sensitive hearing of the rich and easily offended – only to be advised that the two patrons they sought had long since left the establishment for warmer climes.

"South of France? Where in the South of France?" by the look in Sherlock's eye, Greg wondered if he was about to hear a suggestion they fly over there and continue the search.

"If they've gone, they've gone," Lestrade sent the registered names back to Mycroft's phone where Anthea would find them and no doubt do something exquisitely illegal in order to locate the two flown birds, although he wasn't going to hold his breath. "I'm not about to head off to the _Cap d'Antibes_ after a couple of possible buyers," he shook his head. "There's other places we can look."

"They probably went to Marseille," Sherlock mused silently for a moment. "It's the logical spot for any illegal trade in information. I'll have Mycroft track their movements. But in the meantime, we should see this chap," Sherlock handed Lestrade a grubby, much-creased piece of paper on which were scrawled several pencilled words.

Squinting, Greg was just able to make out the writing. There was a name, a location and a time_._ "What's this?" he met Sherlock's pale blue-grey eyes. "A lead?"

"From my homeless network," Sherlock pocketed the scrap of paper and looked around the hotel's lobby where the hotel Manager was still attempting to usher them forth onto the street and far beyond the view of his delicately-visioned and obscenely wealthy clientele. Sherlock looked at the man with ill-concealed distaste. "I sent the word out last night when you dropped me off at Victoria Station. Perhaps I should ask my people to meet me here in the future," he mused, looking around. "Might liven the place up a bit."

"And end up with some poor sod banged up in in the cells for the night?" Greg looked askance. "Hardly seems fair."

"These are members of my _homeless_ network we're talking about, Inspector," Sherlock said. "The key word here being 'homeless'. I'd think they'd probably welcome a nice warm cell for a change; inside toilet, perhaps a hot breakfast ... you make a good case," he nodded, looking around the illustrious surroundings again. "It might be worth it."

"Not sure I'd inflict this place on anyone," Lestrade dropped his voice as he surveyed the hotel as they exited the hotel. "Bloody awful mausoleum, if you ask me."

"It's a couple of hours before we can realistically expect our contact to be there to meet us," Sherlock looked at his watch. "What say we spend the time in a little target-practice?"

"What kind of target-practice?" Lestrade sounded wary. If Sherlock had gotten hold of a gun from his brother, there would be _words_. Several of them would have no more than four letters.

"You'll see," Sherlock grinned, wrapping his scarf tighter around his throat and lifting the collar of his coat as he hailed a cab and gave directions to the driver.

The Judd Street building in front of them seemed fairly nondescript; late Victorian or early Edwardian; red bricks and white painted windows. Something commercial or semi-industrial. The sign on the wall on the outside said it was a studio of some kind.

Target-practice in a studio?

Following the younger Holmes inside, Lestrade was glad of the sudden warm. He hadn't realised quite how chilly the day had become as they headed up a couple flights of old wooden stairs. Up ahead, Sherlock darted through an open door. The sound of heavy thuds echoed from within.

As Greg poked his head inside, he was able to watch as four people, all lined up parallel with the room's far end, brought one hand back to the level of their shoulder then let fly almost simultaneously.

At nearly the same instant, four knives of various description zipped through the air and buried themselves deep into four of the targets resting in front the wall.

_Knives? Sherlock was into knife-throwing?_

Lestrade shrugged and pushed his hands deeper into his coat pockets. No reason why Sherlock couldn't practice throwing knives, he thought. Better than playing with firearms.

Taking a stance at the farthest end of the line-up, Sherlock had already filled his left hand with a selection of blades. Letting fly with three of them in rapid succession, he managed to hit the centre ring, or very close to the centre in all three cases.

"You're improving, Sherlock," a dark-haired and shapely young woman walked to his side. "Bit you're still holding back with the last bit of shoulder-flex," she made a small face. "Are the muscles still troubling you?"

"A little," Sherlock rolled his right arm and shook it out, taking the final blade between his fingers as he took a short breath and flung it mightily at the target.

It sank in almost dead centre. A complete bull's-eye.

"Better," the woman nodded. "Get that shoulder to a physio for some stretching and you'll be able to do that every time," she clapped him gently on the arm and went to speak to one of the other impalement artists.

"Never knew you went in for knives, Sherlock," Greg watched, fascinated as he and the others retrieved their spent blades, returning to stand behind the painted line on the bare wooden floor. Lestrade estimated with a practiced eye. They must have been standing at least eighteen feet away from the targets. There was some pretty good aiming going on.

"It's all a matter of simple mechanics, really," Sherlock murmured, sending his stock of blades hurtling once again in rapid sequence into the padded target.

The final one hit too close to the rim and bounced off.

"_Damn_," Sherlock scowled blackly, as he rotated his right shoulder again. "My aim has been wavering since I went off the roof chasing Lowell Grantham last week," he winced as something pained him particularly.

"The Mayfair Mugger?" Lestrade pursed his lips. "Didn't know you were in on that one."

"I wasn't, initially," Sherlock waited until his _compadres_ had all finished their throw before he went to collect his blades again. He lined up three feet further away from the wall. "I just happened to be in the right place at the right time," he muttered, taking another deep breath and aiming.

Again, three sank deep into the target, with the final one slipping just fractionally off- camber. Heaving a short, unhappy sigh, he rolled his shoulder one final time. "No point doing this anymore until I have this seen too," he scowled again. "Wretched nuisance."

"You went off the roof?"

"Not _all_ the way," Sherlock smiled. "Fortunately, I have long arms," he said, offering no further explanation. "Want a try?" he said, offering Greg the knives.

"Never been much good at throwing stuff," Lestrade accepted the proffered steels, weighing them up in his hand. The blades were unusually flat, while the wooden handles were smooth and almost soft to the touch. There were no rough or angular edges to drag at the palm or be deflected in the air.

Seeing that everyone else had walked over to grab a coffee and listen to the woman as she demonstrated a particular stance, Greg mimicked pulling his hand back as he had seen the others do and, holding the blade between a finger and thumb, sighted the target and let fly.

The blade zipped right over the top of the straw target and to impale itself into one of the rough wooden planks stacked against the wall for that very purpose.

"Oy!" the dark-haired woman shouted. "No mucking around, Sherlock."

"We're going now. See you next week," pushing Lestrade out in front of him, the younger Holmes had them back out on the pavement and waiting for a black cab inside the same minute.

"Who's the woman?" Greg looked back over his shoulder to see if there was a name anywhere near or on the door.

"Catina Dalca," Sherlock spotted a cab and raised his arm, grimacing again as his shoulder twinged. "Comes from a circus family in Romania," he added. "They train here in London when they're touring Europe."

"And you know her how?" Lestrade was imagining all sorts of exotic adventures. Kidnappings in dark, melancholy forests in eastern Europe; minor royalty involved in hidden scandals.

"One of Catina's brothers is a taxidermist," Sherlock pulled open the cab's door and climbed in. "He fixed my bison."

"Of course he did," Lestrade sighed forbearingly as he clambered into the cab.

Giving the address to the cabbie, Sherlock sat back and watched as London passed by, the bare winter trees and the cold grey pavement just another version of the city he knew so very well.

Though not late, the early winter's dark was already drawing in by the time the cab creaked to a halt outside a street of very old, bay-fronted terraced houses in a wide street. Greg knew they were still north of the river, but by the smell of the salty water, it was obvious they were extremely close. It was only when he saw the building in front of him all lit in the winter's late afternoon that he understood where they were and relaxed immediately. If they were going to try and meet anyone, here was as good a place as any.

Another old pub on the river.

Ducking their heads as they entered the front door – the building was constructed long before modern building regulations – Lestrade followed the swish of Sherlock's coat through a cheerfully lit and well-occupied long, narrow bar to the top of an even narrower flight of stairs heading downwards. Taking the twisting steps at a reckless pace, they passed by several closed doors at lower levels, the décor growing less ornate as they descended two floors down to what had to be river-level.

There was one more door ahead of them, an ancient dark oaken thing, partly ajar with the soft mumble of voices inside.

Not bothering to knock, Sherlock had his fingers around the edge of the door, pushing it inwards as he crossed the threshold, taking in the two people currently sat either side of a small round table playing cribbage.

"Well, well, _well_," Sherlock strolled on in, hands sliding into his pockets. "London is becoming smaller by the minute," he paused, a tight smile curving his mouth. "Positively _diminutive_, in fact."

Entering the room behind him, Lestrade wondered what on earth would have provoked such a claim. It wasn't until he saw the faces of the two people at the table that understanding dawned.

A most interesting understanding.

Of the two sets of eyes now gazing up at them, one pair belonged an old lag everyone around the river knew as Dibby Dobson, his rheumy denim-blue squint amused and nonchalant.

The other was a grey, wide-eyed stare of searching uncertainty and belonged to the woman whom Mycroft Holmes had called by name, right after she had crashed into him in the entrance hall of MI5.

Now why would the new Director of MI5's archives be spending time secreted away with a known felon like Timmy Dobson? Lifting his eyebrows and smiling in a very calculatingly way, Greg took one of the unoccupied seats and rang the little brass bell on the edge of the table. This was a conversation he had no intention of rushing and as all of this was under the radar, he might as well get a pint in.

###

She had insisted the same surveillance be placed on her as on the rest of her team, Mycroft realised as he scanned down the emailed details of the tracking measures Grace Chandler had requested. It could not be said that she was taking the simple way out of any of this, and he found himself shaking his head a little. There was no need: nobody would have questioned her absence from scrutiny. There was no purpose to this action save one.

Rubbing fingertips across his brow, Mycroft realised he was tired; had felt tired for a while, actually, but had only now come to acknowledge it. An unusual form of weariness seemed to have settled upon him in the last few days; possibly he was coming down with some common virus, although he was rarely ill. Perhaps it was simply the weather.

Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes momentarily, his thoughts flaring outwards to all the matters his department had in hand at that moment ... the Iranian peace treaty ... the newest bomb-factory discovered in Manchester ... the discovery of financial irregularities at Porton Down ... all of these issues were magnitudes more complex than the possibility of missing documentation from the MI5 archives, and yet ...

And yet.

Despite his best efforts, his mind kept spiralling back to a pair of wide grey eyes that had looked horrified at the thought someone in her team might be stealing and selling classified material. Though he dealt with each and every matter that crossed his desk in the same exemplary fashion, every time he paused, those eyes were examining him still. It was as if she were sitting in the chair the other side of his desk, her fingers steepled, watching him with an amused curve to her mouth.

Rubbing his head again, he pulled the next file up on the screen of his laptop, determined to rid himself of this unnervingly distracting sensation. Clearly the surprise of meeting Grace Chandler again had, in some small way, affected his emotional equilibrium, although why, and possibly more importantly, _how_, he had no clue. Perhaps it was a residual guilt? Perhaps his intellect was only now dealing with the effects of their earlier disconnection, now that he might have to be in more regular contact with her?

The memory of blonde curls spilling onto his chest in sleep made his heart thump.

"Damn it _all_," he growled, pushing himself out of his seat and towards the door, snatching at his coat and umbrella as his did. A brisk walk in the bitter London afternoon would chase away this unwelcome invasion of his thoughts.

"Getting some fresh air," he almost snapped at Anthea as she raised her eyebrows at his passing, several papers on her desk levitating in protest at the unusually forceful airflow.

Watching until Mycroft's stiff back disappeared from view, Anthea returned to her reading of a medical text she'd downloaded from the internet.

Though it was American in origin, it was well-researched, thorough and written with a pleasing directness that allowed the medical and physiological details to be understood by those who might not be appropriately trained or qualified.

She was already up to chapter three and it was becoming rather interesting. Scrolling down to the next section she read the heading and allowed herself a little smile.

_The Chemistry of Genetic Variation: Alpha and Omega._

###

"So let me get this straight," Lestrade spoke slowly as he sipped his beer, a contemplative look on his face as he pondered his way through the labyrinthine situation. "You decided, arbitrarily and without any kind of consultation whatsoever, to go into the private detective business with an associate, in order to track down whoever it was who was selling the MI5 stuff?" he kept his eyes firmly on those of the woman sitting on the other side of the small table.

Grace nodded, equally slowly. "Yes, of course," her tone suggested he was stating the obvious.

"Your associate in this endeavour being one Dibby Dobson; known felon; thief, forger, con artist supreme and all-round questionable entity on the law-and-order front?" He glanced across at the older man. "No offence, Dibby," he lifted a couple of fingers as a rider.

Timmy Dobson knew when to stay quiet. He held his beer and his peace.

Furrowing her forehead, Grace looked between the three men sat at the table; the silver-haired man asking the questions, the tall, dark-haired one who hadn't said anything since he sat down but who was using his stare like a weapon, and, of course, Timmy, who was currently sitting quietly with a half-smile on his face.

"Is Mr Dobson on any existing wanted list?" she fired off a question of her own. "Is he being hunted in the name of some abstract public good? Are you, in fact, after him for anything at all?" Grace knew her eyebrows were raised and she must sound like some kind of prosecutorial virago, but she didn't really care much for the policeman's tone. And it was obvious to anyone with half a brain the man was in law-enforcement.

"Hang on a minute," Greg lifted a hand. "I'm the one asking the questions at this point, and you need to give me some answers."

"Do I?" Grace almost flounced; she definitely heard something like a flounce in her voice. "All I've had since you came in that door and sat down, completely uninvited, I might add, to interrupt a very private conversation, for no demonstrable reason other than you felt like it, has been a barrage of poorly phrased accusations interspersed with pointed questions about things which are clearly none of your business," she paused, her eyes wide with a growing annoyance. "So please tell me why I have to answer a single one of your damn questions?"

"This might be an acceptable reason," Lestrade fished out his ID wallet and laid it flat on the small table between them, the shiny metal badge flanking the plastic card which made it extremely clear who, and what he was.

Grace peered down at the silver crest of the Metropolitan police force and closed her mouth. She'd seen the identical insignia enough times in the past to know it was the genuine article. The ID card said the bearer was a Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of the Met. Looking up into the man's eyes, she drew a short breath. "You should have made it clear when you came in that this was an official visit, in that case."

"I would suggest this makes it official," the dark-haired man spoke, finally, his slightly mocking advice delivered over sharply steepled fingers as his pale blue-grey eyes never left her face.

"And who are you?" Grace was well aware these were the men who'd accompanied Mycroft Holmes to MI5 the night she had careened into him. Now she knew the older man was a police inspector, but the other one just as clearly wasn't.

"My name's Sherlock Holmes," he focused on her face. "I'm Mycroft's brother."

_Oh Christ_, Grace felt her stomach sink. _Two of them_.

"Yes," Sherlock smiled briefly though her thought was unspoken. "There are indeed two of us."

"And you know who I am," she was relieved she was able to sound relatively normal. The idea of _two_ of them ... "And this is Mr Timothy Dobson," she said, lifting a hand towards the old man at her side who had remained silent throughout. "Scholar, expert in ancient documents and my personal friend," she added, turning to face Lestrade again with slightly narrowed eyes. "And our conversation here this evening is entirely our business and nothing to do with the Met, or Mycroft Holmes, I can assure you."

"Apart from the fact that you made a unilateral decision to go chasing after some potentially very dangerous people who might take it amiss at being hunted down?" Greg looked and sounded unimpressed. "For someone as smart as you have to be to do the kind of job you do, I'm surprised you thought you might get away with anything so incredibly stupid. You're going to have to stop this, I'm afraid."

_And that was quite enough_. Grace gritted her teeth.

First these two interlopers barge into a private conversation and now she was being told she couldn't help in tracking down the missing materials? Materials from her _own archives_?

"I wasn't aware the Met allowed its senior officers to drink while on duty," she smiled, coolly.

"They don't, as a rule," Lestrade smiled equally coolly back, sipping his beer.

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Inspector..."

"In which case, I take it this ... meeting is unofficial and off the record?" Grace smiled a little more.

"Something like that, yeah," Greg couldn't help appreciating the clarity of her eyes. They were quite an exceptional shade of grey.

"So in that case, Inspector," Grace leaned forward, her smile unchanged. "You can take your official ID card and shove it. Unless you want to make this into something more formal, neither Mr Dobson nor I have to sit here and listen to you spouting off a moment longer."

"Wait," Sherlock spoke softly, but it was loud enough to do the job. "I find myself in the unusual position of acting as umpire in this infantile squabble," he leaned forward across the table at the exact same angle as Grace, his pale eyes fixing themselves firmly on hers. "Reg Lestrade is not the dimmest candle in the Met although I understand how you might have reached that conclusion. It would be reasonable to hear him out."

"Gregory," Grace responded without thought.

"Reg, _Greg_, irrelevant," Sherlock waggled his fingers and frowned. "But it wouldn't hurt you to listen," he added sincerely. "He's not entirely incompetent."

"Well, thank you very much," Greg put his glass down with a slight thud and looked offended. "Being damned with faint praise does not encourage any great sense of camaraderie, y'know."

Grace almost smiled on hearing the complaint in the Inspector's voice, when she suddenly had the strangest feeling. She was so close to this younger brother of Mycroft's that the faintest wisp of the man's scent reached her senses, not the subtle cologne that moved with him, but the darker, underlying scent that was uniquely his own and which clung to him like an aura. Without realising it, her eyes widened. She sat back in her chair.

"It's not only me you need to convince," she muttered after a moment's pause. "What do you want to do, Timmy?" she turned to face the little old man sitting serenely beside her.

"I think," the perpetually tanned features looked thoughtful for a moment. "That we all need another drink."

###

_Alpha_ ... Grace knew it the moment she was close enough to sense beyond the redolence of his cologne. Mycroft Holmes' brother, clearly a younger brother, was just as much Alpha as his elder sibling.

But that was impossible. Almost impossible.

The Alpha variation was as rare as her own; entire families probably never seeing more than one mutation of either type in a single generation. Even to a parental match of Alpha and Omega, the idea of having more than one child beyond the spectrum of Beta was almost unheard of. Not entirely impossible, of course, which is why she would bet her next pay cheque that Sherlock Holmes was _Alpha_, just like his big brother.

_Two Alpha sons_ ... then their parents could only have been ... Grace wondered which parent was which. Did they take after an Alpha father, with all the stereotypical issues around authority and protection of the family? Or had their mother provided the Alpha genomic sequence, combining strategic cleverness with ferocity?

After they had agreed to Timmy's suggestion, there was some re-arranging of seating in order to make the rest of the conversation a little more comfortable. This brief distraction allowed Grace to get her thoughts back into focus.

_Mycroft's brother was an Alpha_. Their childhood must have been ... combative to say the least. No wonder Mycroft sometimes overplayed a controlling hand.

About to retake her seat, she became aware of a presence standing at her side as Sherlock stood to take off his heavy winter coat.

"That's an enviable sensitivity you have," he muttered softly, folding the greatcoat over the back of a nearby chair. "You're quite right of course, and in case you're wondering, it's my mother," he said with a half-grin. "She terrorises the both of us, especially at Christmas."

Apart from the disquieting fact that the younger sibling seemed to possess the same unnerving ability to read minds as did the elder, Grace realised they both had a similar off-beat charm; there was something incredibly appealing about such all-encompassing and agile minds. And then, of course, there was the mother ...

The sudden image of the two tall, imposing, Alphas being harangued into submission by an equally formidable older woman made Grace smile. She wondered what Mycroft's mother looked like, if she was as polished as her eldest child.

"How on earth does your father cope?" Grace couldn't help but ask. "With the three of you?" she paused, wondering. "Or are there more?"

"I think three Alphas under the same roof are more than sufficient to test anyone," Sherlock muttered, looking rueful as he tweaked his eyebrows. "However, my father has always managed to soldier on despite everything my brother and I, and occasionally my mother, deemed fit to hurl in his direction," he hesitated. "You'd probably … like him."

Unsure what possible response she might offer, Grace said nothing, but felt a little warmed inside. The contrast between the Holmes brothers was striking; how different Mycroft's younger brother seemed. Thoughtful and considerate, rather sweet, even. It was something of a relief to know that there was at least one _pleasant_ Alpha around. If there was going to be a problem with the police in tracking down the stolen materials, then Sherlock Holmes might just turn out to be a godsend. Clearly, this brother was the nice one.

It would be an agreeable change from dealing with the elder Holmes' stiff omniscience. Taking her seat and lifting her fresh drink, Grace raised her glass to him. "Cheers," she smiled.

"Gracie here tells me she's looking for some government papers wot might 'ave gotten lorst in town," Timmy Dobson took a long pull on his bitter and sat back, waiting. It wasn't every night he held court to people from MI5 _and_ the Met, although he'd never quite be able to see Miss Grace as havin' anything to do with them spy-boys.

"We are," Sherlock sighed, a little impatiently, absently rubbing his shoulder as if it was giving him pain. "And the guilty parties are absconding even as we sit here fiddling while Rome burns."

"Rome is _not_ burning, Sherlock, so stow it," Lestrade sighed too, but for a different reason.

"If you're not here officially," Grace turned to face him, "then why?"

Inhaling slowly, Greg linked his fingers across his stomach and met her eyes. Such luminous eyes. Eyes like that could see right through to a man's soul if he let them.

"Ask Dibby," he said. "I've been drafted in for local colour. Your boss Palmer wants to keep this as low-key as possible in case anyone twigs there's a search on and fancies doing a midnight flit. It's people like Dibby here who might know the people we need to see."

"So you came here to speak to Timmy for the same reason I did," Grace sipped her Tanqueray-and-tonic and looked reflective. "We're actually after the same thing."

Swirling a couple of fingers of reasonable scotch in a tumbler, Sherlock pursed his mouth. "Not exactly," he said slowly. "Mr Dobson agreed to meet with us and provide, for a small consideration, a certain level of information. Armed with this information, the Inspector here and I are going out on a little treasure-hunt which may, in all likelihood, bring us into close proximity with the person or persons who both bought and sold the documents in question, however," he leaned forward again, his pale eyes suddenly much harder. "Graham and I are both reasonably experienced in taking care of ourselves out on the streets whereas _you_ ..." he left the statement hanging, waving the glass at her before swallowing half the contents in a single gulp.

Grace decided right then there was no way she was going to be kept out of this. It was _her_ team at stake; _her_ archives that had been plundered.

"I have two points to make at this stage," she said calmly, placing her class on the table and smiling, linking her fingers just as they had. "Point one is that I have no intention of becoming involved in anything violent; I am quite content to leave that to you gentlemen should such a thing be considered necessary or desirable," she said. "The fact that you are both experienced in taking care of yourselves on the streets means that I can quite happily leave you to it should anything untoward occur."

"Now wait a minute ..." Greg didn't like the sound of this one little bit.

"And your second point, Doctor Chandler?" Sherlock lifted his glass again, staring at her, unblinking, over the rim.

"My second point is that I don't particularly give a damn what either of you want me to do; I have my own agenda and if you don't want to work with me, that's fine. But you may as well understand right now there is no way you're going to make me stop doing this," she added. "I've made up my mind."

"Then you can bloody well unmake it," Lestrade scowled. "If this becomes an official police matter.."

"Which it isn't at the moment, is it?" Grace crunched a piece of ice between her teeth. "In fact it's so very far away from being official I doubt this situation will ever see the light of an formal inquiry; there would be too many difficult questions for everyone to answer, and if there's one thing I know all about in the legal profession; the police do _not_ like having to deal with difficult questions when they know the answer is going to put them in the wrong."

"Then what do you propose?" Sherlock finished the scotch and leaned forward, rubbing his shoulder again. "Clearly you have a counter-suggestion to offer?" he added, an eyebrow rising in line with the question.

"I do," Grace replaced her glass on the table with a sharp _clunk_. "I am an expert in the materials that have apparently gone missing. I know what they might look like, how they might be stored and transported. This is my work and I'm very good at it, whereas you two, _forgive me_," she raised an eyebrow of her own. "Must at best be considered enthusiastic amateurs."

"Amateur?" Sherlock smiled a little dangerously. "I can assure you, Doctor, there is nothing _amateur_ about the work I do."

"In the sense that I am paid to do what I do and you are not, then there is," Grace was decisive. "Although I expect any brother of Mycroft Holmes would probably not need to be paid to do what I do or know what I know," she added. "You've worked with the sort of data that's gone missing before?" she asked.

"Occasionally," Sherlock waved an airy hand. "I tend to leave such minutia to others, however."

"Excellent," Grace nodded. "You can leave the details to me, in that case."

"But there's no way you're coming out on the chase with us," Greg knew in his bones that this was a bad idea and getting worse with every sentence. "It's not safe for anyone doing this, let alone a wom ... someone like you."

"Then aren't I lucky to have two such well-trained and hardened experts as yourselves to take care of anything risky?" she said, finishing her drink and turning to Timmy Dobson. "Okay, Timmy, this is where you get to amaze all of us with the things you have stashed away inside that incredible memory of yours," Grace sat back and looked ready to be informed.

Greg saw the woman was not going to be easy to ditch, but he'd wait until Dibby had said what there was to say and then he and Sherlock could leg it and there'd be damn-all she could do about any of it. He settled back in his chair feeling pleased with himself.

Sherlock watched Grace with his peripheral vision realising that, whatever happened, she was not about to give up this quest of hers, regardless of what Lestrade might think.

He also realised he could not possibly allow Grace Chandler to leave the pub alone.

###

Himself had returned after an hour, his usually pale skin brushed with healthy colour; the walk clearly hadn't done him any harm.

"Anything I need to know about?" Anthea stood to go and fetch tea. She gave him a long and penetrating look. "Do I need to bring the chocolate digestives?"

Mycroft shook his head. "Tea alone will be fine," he nodded briskly. The walk in the cold air had indeed cleared his thoughts as he'd made his way, somewhat more energetically than was his usual wont, along the Victoria Embankment and back. All he had to do now was keep his mind occupied until it was able to re-establish a new benchmark of normality which included the ongoing presence of Grace Chandler. Once that was emplaced, her distractive qualities would fade to nothing. He smiled faintly. The sooner the better.

"I'll be working late tonight," he said as Anthea came in with the tea-things. "Could you arrange a sandwich or something, as usual?"

"Of course, sir," Anthea almost snorted; as if she'd ever just arranged a 'sandwich' for the man in his life. She'd organise _Poulet au Citrone_ for tonight; it was one of his especial favourites. And maybe a half-bottle of Montrachet, or maybe the Saint-Emilion, the one he liked so much. She felt he might appreciate a little pampering if things were happening the way she believed them to be.

After reading what she'd been reading all afternoon, she now understood several things that had piqued her curiosity about the man in the past. While she may not have, may _never_ have all the answers, at least she was clued in on a few things that he'd never felt it necessary to explain to her.

Such as why he carried his umbrella like a sword, or why he sometimes developed a blinding headache in the middle of summer. Why he would rather stay silent than defend himself against criticism. Why he avoided personal entanglements.

Now all she had to do was read the chapters on _Omega_.

###

"Which is about all I can tell you, Mr Lestrade, sir," Timmy Dobson looked at the inspector from beneath his bushy eyebrows and shrugged apologetically. "There's bin a few whispers, but nuffin' concrete," he said. "No names nor places uvver than wot I just said."

"But you did say there was that one place not far from Sadler's Wells theatre," Grace reminded the old man. "The place that sometimes did business 'beyond the usual', I think is how you described it," she added. "Though you didn't actually say what the usual business was."

Timmy looked suddenly awkward. "It's not really the kind of place a nice lady as yerself would probably want to talk about, Miss Grace," he muttered uncomfortably.

Greg Lestrade felt confused for a moment, running a pictorial map of the area through his mind to get his bearings. "Where did you say this place was?" he asked, his gaze distant in thought.

"Top end of Arlington Way," Timmy smiled uneasily. "Just up from the Shakespeare pub."

"The one opposite the theatre?" Sherlock frowned as he too tried to place the mysterious business. Apart from the theatre, it was mostly residential apartments in the area. All except ... _Ah_.

Lestrade lifted his head at almost the same moment. "The only other thing that's down that way by the Wells but up from the pub is ..." he raised his eyes to meet those of the younger Holmes. And grinned.

"What?" Grace looked around the table, having absolutely no idea why the conversation was suddenly full of pregnant pauses. "What is it that nobody appears capable of saying?"

"Mr Dobson is referring to _Milton's_, a house of ill-repute which has, for a number of years masqueraded as a gentlemen's' club and is located at the southern end of Arlington Way," Sherlock sounded weary.

"A Gentlemen's Club?" Grace looked between Mycroft's brother and the now-grinning inspector, before turning to stare at Timmy who blushed a little. "Then business as usual would _be_ ..."

"Indeed it would," Greg couldn't help the laugh that accompanied the admission. "Dibby here is only talking about one of the most disreputable knocking-shops north of the river."

Trying desperately to control her own smile, Grace wanted to look anywhere but at the blushing older man beside her – her laughter would only embarrass him further – when she found she was staring directly into the dark hazel gaze of the man from Scotland Yard.

It was quite magnetic.

"And when you say knocking-shop, you actually mean bordello?" Grace realised she was staring at the policeman but not really wanting to stop. His eyes were a liquid brown and green combination she found unexpectedly attractive.

"Bordellos are legal in Britain, as in other Commonwealth nations," Sherlock was watching Grace as she stared at Lestrade. "Although the management of one is still, strangely, a prosecutable offence."

"And what was that name you said?" Greg forced himself to look at Dibby, still sitting quietly and stretching his pint.

"Masterson," he said. "Nasty piece of work in anyone's book," he said. "If you take my advice, you'll stay clear of the entire shebang," he mumbled into his beer. "No place for a lady, is that."

"But we have to find out who's been doing this, Timmy," Grace laid soft fingertips on the back of his wrist. "The police can't do it, and MI5 can't do it, so that really only leaves us, and there's no way these two are leaving me out of anything," she added. "But I appreciate your concern and I promise to be careful."

Timmy Dobson sipped what remained of his pint and looked sour, but he said nothing.

"In which case, what are out options for getting into the place and finding this Masterson person?" Lestrade narrowed his eyes, thinking. "If I go in waving my badge, we'll get nothing. If we go in under the auspices of MI5, then whoever's doing this will go to ground and we'll never find out who it is. This leaves only us and, as Doctor Chandler has said, but how best to use us?" he posed the question to the room at large.

"Hard to break into a place that never actually closes," Sherlock mused. "If they ever shut, which I doubt, then there'd be a chance, but given the nature of the business being conducted on the premises ..."

"We could always go in as clients, couldn't we?" Grace asked slowly. "Customers ... whatever they're called."

Greg found his brain closing down momentarily at the suggestion. She had said 'we'. Not you, or you and the tall streak sitting beside you, but _we_.

"You counting yourself into that equation, I take it?" he asked warily. "You see yourself as coming into that place with us?"

"Why ever not?" Grace frowned. "Can't women go into these places?" she wondered what the problem might be. "I've been to strip-clubs and burlesque before, in the States," she added. "Why should this be any different?"

"The business claims itself to be a gentleman's club," Sherlock interjected, "with the emphasis on _man_, I think you'll find."

Her eyes widening of their own accord, Grace was more than a little shocked. Not at the fact it was a place where men clearly went to buy sex, or that such places existed in London, but rather that it was still considered improper for a woman to enter such an establishment.

"What an utter load of balls," she said, eventually. "Are women actually _forbidden_ to enter, or is it more of a preference kind of thing? I can't honestly see many women wanting to go into a place like that, but we should be able to if we did," she paused. "Want to, that is."

"You suggest we walk in through the front door?" Sherlock lifted his eyebrows. "A simple plan, one so unsophisticated that nobody with an ounce of strategy would consider it?" he was momentarily introspective. "Which is why it would probably work," his smile flickered on and off in an instant as he looked as Grace. "Though if you insist on accompanying us, you'll need to change into something less comfortable, I'm afraid," he said, waving vaguely in her direction.

"Why?" Greg made a more thorough appraisal of the woman's appearance. Apart from being too gorgeous for her own good, the doctor looked pretty normal to him. "What's the problem?"

Sherlock sighed, exasperated. "Obvious, isn't it?"

"Not to me," Grace looked down at her clothes. Charcoal trousers and good-quality, low-heeled black shoes. An elegant, black wool jumper over a silk t-shirt. Gold watch and earrings. Nothing untoward. She turned to look at Mycroft's brother with bewilderment in her eyes.

He sighed again. "Bad enough that Gerry here looks like an advert for the _Police Gazette_," he muttered. "But you could be off to an early dinner with the Prime Minister in that get up."

"Gregory," Grace still wasn't sure what he was getting at. "And?"

"_And_, if you, a _woman_, are going to walk into Milton's, then you need to look like the kind of woman who would do that. Right now you look like a portfolio manager for one of the larger hedge funds."

"A similar accusation might be levelled at you," she said, eyeing the expensive black suit and shoes, the costly greatcoat dropped so casually over the back of the chair.

"Yes, but a man, regardless of how he may be dressed, is unlikely to attract any attention whatsoever, yet any _woman_, by the exception of her gender in such a place, would be an immediate target for all manner of unwanted scrutiny, especially if such scrutiny suggests she may not be all that she purports to be."

"Yeah, and besides ..." Lestrade was about to add his own thought when he realised what he'd been going to say might be misconstrued.

"What?" Grace felt she may as well hear it all. "Besides?"

"You'll be attracting all sorts of attention in any case," Greg sighed, looking at her sadly. "You're a very attractive woman going into a place where men go explicitly to meet attractive women; you'll have to beat them back with a stick."

Grace smiled. Clearly he was joking and it wasn't going to make her change her mind; she was still coming with them. "Okay," she said. "What should my outfit say if not portfolio manager?"

Sherlock pondered for a second. "Expensive Madam might be your best bet," he said finally. "Something a little sleazy under the surface."

In the seat next to her, Timmy Dobson put a hand over his eyes and groaned.

###

They had decided to wait at her apartment on Southbank while she changed. Realising none of them had eaten, nor would likely have any time to do so, Grace recommended they raid her fridge while she hunted out something suitable for the role she was going to play. Not finding anything that specifically suggested classy procurer, she settled for a relatively slinky sleeveless black dress which she cinched in tight around her waist with an extra-wide black patent belt, making her shape even more hourglass than usual. Digging out her highest black heels and silk tights, she knew her feet were going to freeze if she had to do any outside walking later, vowing to get cabs all the way.

Not bothering with jewellery, she grinned in delight as she found something left over from Halloween rolled up inside her small junk-drawer. Thinking ahead, she dug deeper in the back of the same drawer, until her fingers found what they were hunting, bringing it out into the bedroom's light, she checked it before stuffing into a small black shoulder bag. Going to the bathroom, she re-did her makeup for evening lights, applying a dark red lipstick and smoky eyeliner and adding a goodly dollop of perfume. Staring at herself in the long mirrors, she made a rueful face and hoped it would do; it was all she had. Grabbing a glittery black silk scarf, she headed into the kitchen to see if Sherlock and the inspector had left her anything edible.

The younger Holmes had made tea and was nibbling a piece of cheese as she walked in.

"Took you long enough ..." Greg Lestrade's voice tapered into silence when she sashayed past him as he lounged against the workbench chewing a chicken sandwich. "_Bloody hell_."

It wasn't just the incredible curves that caught his eye, or the long, elegant legs, or even the sultry cosmetics and wafting perfume that made Grace seem like a model from an expensive magazine. It was the complicated, sinuous tattoo that ran the entire length of her left arm; a silvery-green and black snake whose tail coiled around her wrist while its fanged head rested on the curve of her shoulder. It lent her entire _persona_ an air of immodesty.

And was incredibly sexy.

"Bloody hell," Greg dropped his plate.

"It's a temporary transfer, Inspector, but a good one and should pass all but the closest of examinations," Sherlock nodded in satisfaction as he took in her changed appearance. "That should do nicely," he took out his phone. "I'll just let Mycroft know what we're doing in case he discovers where we are and sends in the SAS or something equally ridiculous," he said, texting a rapid message. "You might want to pick that plate up, by the way."

###

It was almost ten by the time Mycroft sat back from his laptop and eased his neck, beginning to ache a little now after several hours of scheduled meetings and the reading of their transcripts. Rolling his shoulders, he checked his hunter, deciding he'd probably done enough to be going on with. He could head for home and a sound night's sleep.

His mobile hummed gently as it received a text.

A text from Sherlock.

With a photo attachment.

###

The cab took them straight up Farringdon Street and then most of the way up Rosebery Avenue. Though London never really slept, the chill, miserable weather had much of the casual traffic off the roads; it was too unpleasant to leave the warmth of one's home unless absolutely necessary. They reached their goal in less than ten minutes.

Stepping out of the back of the cab, Grace looked around the see an multilevel, pre-war solid brick building with a number of blacked-out windows on the first two floors. There was nothing particularly exciting about this particular building except that it stood quite apart from similarly-built dwellings in the locale.

"Is this it?" she asked, inspecting the old red bricks and not being terribly impressed.

"You, of all people, Doctor Chandler, should know not to judge the book by its cover," Sherlock swept his way to the main front entrance, hammering on the solid wood portal.

Opening inwards, a young woman wearing a cliché of a French maid's costume smiled and opened the door wider to allow them all in.

"I wish to speak with the Manager," Sherlock announced, made a great show of removing his leather gloves and unwinding the dark blue scarf from around his neck. "We have private business to discuss." The woman scurried off.

As soon as she stepped through the double doors, Grace felt her skin prickle, though she wasn't at all sure why. The air carried a faint smell of something like incense or a smoking candle,, but wasn't either of those things. The lights were on the dim side, though still bright enough to make out details.

Walking through into a rather exotic-looking waiting-room, the rugs beneath her feet looked lush but felt thin and cheap. The walls were draped in heavy fabrics and adorned with large Victorian portraits of plump naked women lolling around beside men with impressive sideburns and whiskers and dark frock coats. None of them were terribly good paintings.

All the seats, and there were a large number of them, were upholstered in plush burgundy velvet or dark brown leather.

Grace sniffed. It was all a bit on the tacky side. No wonder women didn't want to frequent these places. It was a dive.

"You wanted to see the manager?" the man emerged from between closed drapes across the room, an insincere smile plastered across his face. "May I ask why?"

"We have a business proposition we'd like to discuss," Greg strolled forward, eyeing the man from shoes to the parting of his hair. "Privately."

"The manager will meet with nobody unless I first recommend the discussion takes place," the man's smile was oil on glass. "I strongly suggest you tell me what you want."

"It has to do with buying and selling," Sherlock stared the stranger down. "And unless you are in a position to turn away extremely some profitable custom, then_ I _suggest you let us through and stop wasting our time."

The man looked between Sherlock and Greg, the corners of his mouth turned down as he pondered the next step.

Finding herself unwilling to wait a moment longer, Grace pushed between her two escorts and faced the man squarely, lifting her chin and half-lidding her eyes.

"I really don't have all night," she said calmly, opening her bag and extracting a tight bundle of 100-pound notes still in the bank's wrapper. She waved it boldly under the man's nose.

"If your organisation is in the business of making money, then we can talk about making more. If no-one here can be bothered," Grace's critical eyes roamed briefly around the room, "and I already see evidence to that fact, then I shall go elsewhere," she announced, replacing the cash. "Do not waste my time," she added softly, coldly. "It is worth a great deal more than yours, I promise you."

There was a discreet beeping-noise and the man removed a small phone from an inner jacket pocket. "Excuse me," he said, moving away.

Turning to face Lestrade and Sherlock, Grace rolled her eyes wide and gave them a minute shrug. "I have no idea what I'm doing," she whispered, "it just seemed the way to go."

Before either of them could respond, the man on the phone cleared his throat.

"The Manager will see you now," he said, his manner suddenly obsequious and faintly submissive.

Grace shivered inside her thick coat. She might not know what she was doing, but whatever it was, she had better be bloody good at it.

###

The room was almost pitch-black and still as she sat in the middle of the bed, a single beam of light shining down from almost directly above. Nude, save for a glittering snake which clung to the entire length of her arm, a wickedly unorthodox element that electrified him with its decadence; she was a blaze of white gold in a room of shadows.

Saying nothing, Grace merely looked at him, her gaze wide and uncomplicated as if assessing and cataloguing his behaviour, weighing it against her memories of Cambridge.

He hesitated, expecting her to speak, to say his name ... anything. But she was motionless and silent, watching his face. Watching, and waiting for him.

"Damn you," he groaned, his hand sliding behind her head, pulling her close in a powerful sweep, finding and taking her mouth in an irresistible kiss that bruised his lips and scorched down to the marrow of his bones.

Her pale arms slid tightly around his neck, compelling him closer, her naked body following suit as she enfolded him into her, dragging them both down to the bed into heat and flesh and the imperatives of sex.

Mycroft felt the softness of her skin, the sensation of lithe muscles moving beneath his fingertips as she arched into his embrace. The sharp scent of verbena blended with the earthy musk of desire as he held her close, breathless with each curve and valley her body offered.

_Omega_.

"I want you," his breathing was ragged, grazing the column of her throat with his mouth. "I have always wanted you."

"I know," Grace murmured against his temple. "I have always known."

Gathering her tighter into the security of his arms, her heat and fragrance sending his thoughts into a mad spin, he realised she was slipping away, vanishing back into darkness. He clutched tighter, thinking he could keep her here, beside him.

But all that remained was the black and empty night.

Mycroft awoke, sweating and achingly aroused, his heart a thunder in his chest. The bedside alarm said the hour was still early, but he knew without question there would be no more sleep for him tonight. He lay back against the sudden chill of his pillows striving for calm.

"Damn you," he whispered.


	4. Chapter 4 Best of Enemies

**Best of Enemies**

_A Disorderly House – An Unexpected Ambivalence – Never Assume – The Altruistic Response._

#

#

The three of them were directed towards a heavy door, partly opened so that a slice of golden light shone through. The man with the oily smile pushed the door wider and indicated Grace should precede the group.

Taking a deep breath and lifting her chin, she stepped inside a large, semi-lit space that seemed to be a combination of modern business-office and old-fashioned drawing room. There was a stylish dark striped wallpaper in shades of blue and rich patterned rugs.

A large antique desk took pride of place in one half of the room. There was an equally large leather chair behind it. The chair was occupied.

"I'm Helen Masterson, you wanted to speak with me?" the woman seated behind the desk watched them as they entered her office. "I'm always interested in talking about money," she added looking at the blonde newcomer before standing and walking over to a well-stocked bar. "Drink?"

Taking the lead as she had outside, Grace smiled graciously. "I'd love a gin and something," she said in an exquisite, cut-glass accent. "But the boys won't," she paused. "I expect my ... companions to be on their toes, don't I?" she purred, turning her head just enough to give Lestrade the merely flicker of a wink.

Not knowing if her game had the slightest chance of working, Greg felt they may as well try: they needed information and anything that might expedite a conversation was worth a go. He stood straighter and folded his arms, a fierce expression shaping his features. Sherlock didn't move; his normal look of terminal _ennui_ sufficiently ominous as he leaned back against the wall by the door, hands in pockets and a saturnine cast to his face in the dimmed light. Grace wasn't sure if he was playing along or just watching the show.

Returning her gaze to the manager of the bordello, Grace assessed her as being late forties, possibly a little older; it was hard to say beneath that much make-up. Hair greying at the temples but regularly dyed a reddish-brown. Expensive clothes, but not terribly fashionable, as if they were being worn just that bit longer than was _chic_ to do. There was a certain hardness in the woman's features, a coarseness that spoke of too much scotch and too little sleep.

Masterson cast her eyes over the two men standing so still and silent.

"You have them well-trained," she said, adding ice and tonic to a glass before handing it to Grace. "And they're so pretty, just standing there, waiting for you," she said. "Especially this one," she murmured, looking up into Lestrade's carefully blanked face. "You wouldn't consider a swap, would you?" she looked sideways at her assistant. "He's very keen to please, aren't you, kitten?"

Caught between a horrified possibility that the strange woman might actually accept the offer, and a desperate need to please the woman called Masterson, he simpered horribly.

Grace felt slightly ill.

"An intriguing idea," she said, standing beside the desk, although as you can see ..." she looked pointedly between the chair and Lestrade until he realised she wanted him to pull it out for her to sit in. He stepped forward quickly to fulfil the task.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"Sorry ..?" Grace let the gap hang in the air.

"Sorry _Madam_," he mumbled, ducking his head.

"As you can see," Grace sat, elegantly and as if she had all the time in the world. "This one still has a problem with his focus," she smiled. "But he has other skills," she added, cryptically.

"I just bet he does," Masterson retook her own seat, turning to examine the stunning ice-blonde woman with the two beautiful men who looked as if they'd kill on her word. "You spoke of making money? Of buying and selling?"

"Sherlock?" Grace didn't move her head. "I think that's your cue," she sat back and sipped her drink.

"Your business is failing," the tone in Sherlock's voice from the back of the room made it clear he wasn't asking a question. "You've already had to sell of most of the original antiques and replace them with shoddy knock-offs, the deep indentations in the carpets beside the newer pieces of junk a clear indication of the better items that you sold; even the paintings are unspeakable copies of the Lawrence originals. A place like this, in this location, at this time of night should be a literal hive of activity and yet your ... _undertaking_ is mostly empty. It can't be because it's too early; busiest times in any brothel are between five and eleven at night. Nor is it because this establishment is hidden or lacking in off-road parking; Sadler's Wells is just down the road, making this an easy location to find with ample space for cars. So what is it that's causing all the problems?" Sherlock stepped away from the wall and into the light, his hands still in his pockets.

"Your problem is cash-flow, or rather, the lack thereof," he said, matter-of-factly. "Maybe you made some unwise investments, perhaps you just got greedy, but now there's a lot of competition building up in these areas north of the river; new places a great deal more enticing and glittery than some old club more noted for its links with long-dead British politicians than for its mailing list of living patrons," he said. "You need to modernise in order to attract the better class of sex-worker and, ergo, the better class of client, but you've run out of cash, haven't you?" he asked. "And the bank isn't willing to increase either your loan or your overdraft?"

Helen Masterson was silent as she absorbed the flood of information. "How do you know all this?" she asked. "This is private information; how did you get hold of it?"

"It doesn't matter how we know," Sherlock smiled coldly. "We _know_. We also know how you've been making ends meet in the interim. You've been rather naughty, haven't you?"

The woman's eyes widened, in either fear or outrage, Greg wasn't sure, but it was clear she was on the edge of some kind of outburst. He stepped closer to Grace, the front of his heavy coat brushing the back of her chair, hands ready, his face hardening. She could feel the ridge of his knuckles barely touching the top of her spine. It was oddly comforting.

Unexpectedly, Masterson smiled at Lestrade's instant reaction. "Your pets are quite something," she said, admiringly. "No wonder you don't want to part with them," she sighed heavily, resting both palms on her desk. "I am still very interested in knowing how you discovered this information," she frowned. "And what you intend to do about it."

"Who are your contacts?" Sherlock turned to look around the room with greater attention. "We know you've been acting as the go-between in certain financial transactions involving the sale of classified materials, so who have you been dealing with in your little enterprise?"

"_What?_" Finally, Masterson showed shock and fear. "Who are you people?" she whispered, a hand at her throat as if to protect that particular vulnerability.

"We are whoever we seem to be," Grace crossed her legs with a slither of silk. Lifting her bag, she extracted the bundle of high-denomination notes, twisting it slowly between her fingers.

The knuckles at her back tensed.

"My friends and I are not really bothered about your part in this; you've acted in the way you know best; as an intermediary. But what _I_ want to know," Grace leaned into the woman's space. "Who are the principals in this activity?"

Looking between them, Helen Masterson was clearly at a loss, unsure what would be in her best interests to do. "And the money?" she asked, eyeing the bundle of notes. There had to be at least twenty-thousand pounds inside the tight band of bank-paper. She could do a lot with that kind of money

"Yours if your information leads us to either one of the two people we most want to speak with," Grace laid the bundle on the edge of the woman's oversized desk. "Give me names."

Masterson swallowed and shook her head. "I don't have any names," she said. "Names were something none of us ever used."

"So how did you make contact?" Greg wanted to know how this whole thing started. "Who came to you with the deal?"

Sighing loudly, but keeping her eyes on the bundle of cash, Helen Masterson closed her eyes. "Some man came here to meet one of the girls," she said, eventually. "Clearly he thought this would be as good a place as any to carry out certain pieces of ... business. And afterwards, he leaves an envelope behind. All I was ever expected to do was to pass on the envelope. I'm only a ... facilitator."

"He?" Grace snapped. "He who?"

"I don't know," Masterson groaned. "He phoned one night after he'd been here; I never had any dealings with him other than by phone, and the envelopes he left. I knew he'd been a customer here, but I didn't know which one; he uses one of those electronic voice distorters when he phones."

"When was the last time he called?" Lestrade wanted to narrow the timeline down a little. "Do you keep a list of when your clients visit?"

"Last time?" Masterson paused, thinking. "It was several weeks ago," she said eventually. "And no; there's never been any need to keep track of who is here at any given time."

"But surely it must have occurred to you to keep track of the customer so that you'd have some idea of who this person actually was?" Grace looked disbelieving.

Masterson shook her head. "He always phones at night to tell me to expect an envelope and there'd be one; a large manila envelope, waiting behind the painting above the fireplace in the foyer."

"And what were you expected to do with this envelope?" Sherlock joined in. "Deliver it to someone, obviously," he said. "But to whom? And how?"

"I had to leave it overnight in the bedside drawer in one of the rooms upstairs," the woman shrugged helplessly. "It's gone the following day and I never have any idea of who takes it."

"And what's your cut for all this _facilitating?_" Greg was done with pretending to be anything other than a copper.

"Two thousand each time," Helen Masterson looked sour. "Not really enough to do anything with, but too good to turn away in the present situation."

"What's inside the envelopes?" Sherlock returned to the grilling. "Were they _always_ collected by the next day? Did you ever look inside? Were they heavy? Could you feel what was in any of them?"

"_No_," the older woman almost wrung her hands. "I never did look, but they were always very thin and light; whatever was inside them couldn't have been much at all," she added. "A single sheet of paper or something like that," she said. "Never anything more than that."

"And did this man, whoever he is, phone at regular intervals?" Sherlock wondered if they might be able to calculate the next call's arrival.

"Not really, no," Milton's manager shrugged helplessly now, all bravado gone. "He calls when he calls."

Grace scowled. "Which tells us very little of what we want to know," she made a face, looking at the older woman. "I am not happy."

"Until we have located the man, all your incoming calls will be traced," Sherlock pulled out his mobile to send a text to the number Gerald Palmer had given them. It would be the work of a moment to have the calls in and out of this place traced. "And your mobile number?" he asked imperiously.

"He never calls that number," she protested. "Nobody does for the business."

"In case you find a way to call him, of course," Sherlock stood, impatient. "The number?"

Giving him her phone, Masterson sat, resigned and tired. Her business was going down the drain, she'd been reduced to taking crumbs to keep the place afloat, and now this...

"Do your worst," she muttered. "I doubt I'll be here much longer in any case," she added. "The bank's about to foreclose on the mortgage and your mystery man will have to go elsewhere to drop off his bloody envelopes if I shut down."

Still holding his phone, Sherlock's forehead creased. They had come this far; to lose the connection through something as boringly pedestrian as a missed mortgage payment ...

"I'll see if I can get the bank to hold off," he rolled his eyes, typing rapidly before he sent off another text to Palmer's people. "Until we catch our envelope-dropper," he added. "If I were you," he said, staring at Masterson, "I'd make the most of it"

"You can do that?" Masterson frowned in uncertainty. "Why on earth would you do that?"

"Which room upstairs?" Lestrade interrupted, wanting to examine the drop-off site, not that there'd be much to see, considering the amount of traffic that would have been in and out of the place since the last envelope-drop three weeks prior. But still.

"Number fourteen, first floor, to the left," Masterson waved a hand at the ceiling above her head. "It's never locked."

"Then I'm going to have a look around before we do anything else," Greg nodded, almost to himself, moving towards the door.

"The money?" Masterson spoke anxiously.

"When we catch the man doing this," Grace dropped the banded cash back into her bag. "Until then," her voice grew hard. "You get nothing."

"I'll let you know the minute he calls again, I promise," the increasingly unhappy woman tried desperately to have them believe her. That last thing she wanted was to get the police in here; that would be the death-knell of her business. "Just let me help you."

Handing her a business card, Sherlock stared directly into her eyes. "Try and do anything clever and you'll be peddling your trade out on the streets," he said.

Her eyes wide in fear, Masterson nodded hastily. "I promise," she whispered. "I promise."

Walking back out of her room, their long dark coats flaring slightly behind them, they reached the foyer.

Lestrade turned. "I have two questions," he spoke very quietly. There was some tension in his voice. "First," he looked into Grace's eyes. "Is that money real?"

Holding her bag suddenly against her chest, she looked faintly apprehensive. "I've had it for ages," she said, defensively. "Got it out of a collection of documents when I was working for the Law Archives," she shrugged. "I always meant to throw it away, but it's such good quality, I couldn't bear to part with it," she attempted an expression of injured innocence.

"You're telling me you've got a pile of _funny money_?" Greg scowled violently and sucked down a breath. "Were you _really_ going to give it to that Masterson woman if she had been able to help us catch whoever's doing this?"

Looking surprised at the question, Grace lifted her eyebrows and looked subdued. "Of course not," she admitted reluctantly. "Though it might have been worth it."

"To hand over, what, at least ten grand of _counterfeit cash?_ Are you _insane?_ Do you know how many laws you're breaking just by having that stuff in your _possession?_" Lestrade had no idea why the thought of her having the illegal stash was making him feel so heated, but the back of his neck was getting warm.

"I will do _whatever_ it takes to sort this problem out and take suspicion away from the people who work for me," Grace hissed, beginning to get angry herself. "Besides, it's not really any of your business, is it?"

"_I'm a bloody copper; of course it's my bloody business_." Gritting his teeth, Greg was about to stomp away to the wide staircase at the far side of the empty foyer, when Masterson came charging out of her office, a phone in her hand, her eyes wide. "It's _him_," she pointed frantically at the phone. "He's dropping something off tonight!"

Sherlock had the device from her hand and at his ear in the same moment, but the line was already dead. He looked across the room at his comrades and back at Masterson. "Looks like we shall be your guests for longer than we anticipated," he smiled without humour. "In the meantime, I shall check the upstairs room and then we'll wait for whatever eventuates."

"Just don't involve the police, please," the manager of the bordello looked almost sick with worry.

"A little late to be worrying about the police, don't you think?" he asked, turning on his heel and heading across the foyer to the fireplace. Levering the painting slightly away from the wall, he checked there was nothing already there. Satisfied, he took the carpeted stairs two at a time, there was nobody else around and the three of them made it up to number fourteen without being seen.

"Will your brother be ready to have this place watched in time?" Lestrade looked around him. The younger Holmes was perfectly correct; this place had seen far better days.

"Knowing Mycroft, I expect this place has been under CCTV surveillance since I told him we were coming here, although I plan to be waiting for our visitor down in the foyer when he makes his drop."

"Then I want a good look around in the meantime," Greg's eyes were already searching out other hiding places, which the younger Holmes went directly to the farthest beside cabinet.

The room was of a fairly standard size; large enough to hold a very big bed, a couple of bedside tables, a dressing-table and a couple of armchairs. There was a miniscule _ensuite_ bathroom off to the right.

"What can I do to help?" Grace wanted to be involved; the idea of sitting still and doing nothing while Sherlock and the inspector hustled around the place made her fingers itch.

"You can sit there and keep out of my way," Lestrade stabbed a finger at one of the chairs. "I'm still in half a mind to arrest you under the Forgery and Counterfeit Act of 1981, section two, and all five paragraphs of subsections fifteen and sixteen," he snapped, his still-angry gaze evidence of his mood.

For once, Grace felt discretion to be the better part of valour and she took a seat without further argument. He'd calm down sooner or later.

There was a muffled buzzing from over in the corner. Sherlock closed a drawer in the bedside table and the buzzing almost vanished.

Almost.

"What's that?" Grace peered across the expanse of bed, wondering.

"Nothing," Sherlock stood in front of the table, hands in his coat pockets. "Bedside alarm going off."

"The clock radio's over here," Greg nodded down at the white plastic box on the bedside table by his knee. "Dunno what's making that noise, but it would be better stopped in case someone hears and decides to come in here."

"No-one'll hear," Sherlock looked overly innocent. "Nothing to hear, really," he said, as the buzzing continued, quite loud enough for all three of them to realise it wasn't going to stop anytime soon without human intervention.

Heaving a short sigh, the younger Holmes turned on his heel, wrenched open the drawer and bent over, grasping something in his hands.

The buzzing grew suddenly louder.

"Bloody, _bloody_ thing," he muttered, clearly attempting to yank something apart in his bare hands.

Grace felt her eyes widen of their own accord. The buzzing sounded _awfully_ familiar. Though she tried, she couldn't stop the slightly manic expression creeping across her face. She turned to see if the same thought had occurred to the policeman.

Judging by the height of his eyebrows and the fact he was biting his lower lip to keep from disbelieving laughter, it had.

"Some kind of radio device, Sherlock?" Greg asked carefully. "An alarm of some sort?"

"Something like that," the dark coat dipped to the ground as Sherlock bent nearly double in an effort to end the irritating noise.

"Or perhaps it's some form of timer?" Grace turned to Lestrade, her voice wavering with the effort not to snigger dreadfully. "I'm sure places like this must have all sort of, _um_, things ..." she bit the inside of her cheeks.

"Yes, well, _alright_," Sherlock stood upright, turning to face them both. In one hand he held a moderately-sized pink item, columnar in shape, it filled his hand. Bits of it rotated. The whole thing buzzed like a jar of angry bees. "It came on when I moved it and now I can't make it stop." He held it out. "Help."

"Don't look at me," Greg lifted both hands and stepped back. "I'm not touching anything in here without latex gloves."

"I'm sure there would be such things on the premises," Sherlock gritted between his teeth as the buzzing thing made an unsuccessful bid for freedom.

"Oh, good _grief_," Grace walked over, took the vibrator and twisted the base in an anti-clockwise direction. The buzzing ceased immediately. "Honestly, the pair of you are useless. You act as if you've never seen one of these before."

Sherlock gave her a look of icy indifference. "There's nothing more for me up here," he said, looking down his nose at both his companions. "I'll find a place downstairs to watch out for our friend. I suggest you keep an eye out for his accomplice; they may come in here looking for the envelope at any time; clearly our man has a way of contacting someone inside this place," Sherlock looked around and wrinkled his nose before heading back out through the door.

"Right then," Greg knew exactly what he was going to do first. "I'll take that wad of counterfeit dosh, if you don't mind," he said, holding out his hand. "The sooner it's out of general circulation, the happier I'll feel." He stood, waiting.

"I wouldn't have given it to Masterson," Grace huffed as she dug in her bag and pulled out the pile of notes. "I just thought it might open a few doors for us and it did, so don't go all sanctimonious on me," she added, looking mutinous.

"This is going up in smoke the minute I find a proper fire," Lestrade waved the counterfeit money at her. "And if you have any more of this stuff, you'd be wise to get rid of it pronto," he added, sternly. "Do you?"

There was a tone in his voice that made Grace look at him more closely as she answered his question with a shake of her head. Clearly a man of some integrity, she didn't doubt for a moment that he was morally decent and upright; a policeman who worked closely with both Holmes men, he had to have something going for him. She felt nothing from him that whispered _Alpha_, nor did she have any sense that he shared her own special physiology. _Beta_ then; as was the vast majority of the population.

_But nothing wrong with him for being that_, she thought.

And his eyes really were quite dreamy.

Greg realised he was staring, but she was just standing there, looking at him, saying nothing. In the slightly dimmed light of the bedroom, her clear grey gaze seemed almost luminescent. And vaguely hypnotic. Lestrade found it difficult to look away, not that he really wanted to look anywhere else for the moment.

Grace Chandler filled his eyes and he smiled.

"Fancy a coffee when we get out of here?" he spoke his idea without thinking. "I doubt we'll be able to get back to our respective dens much before midnight, so maybe a coffee or something, yeah?"

"A late night during the week _and_ coffee after ten?" Grace sounded wary. "You're leading me astray, Inspector."

"_Greg_," he grinned back. "And there's nothing wrong with a _little_ wickedness, after all," he said, his grin widening. "Besides, I am an upstanding officer of the law," he added. "I know exactly how far we can afford to stray."

His smile was as innocent as his words though Grace had a feeling neither were quite as harmless as they seemed.

He was tall, she realised as she looked up into those delicious dark eyes. The perfect kind of eyes to take her thoughts away from a much bluer pair ...

"I think a little, late-night transgression is exactly what the doctor ordered," she smiled. "And since I am, actually, a doctor ..."

"You talked me into it," Lestrade blinked slowly, a new smile on his face.

"Gregory," Grace tried his name out. "A good name for a police officer."

"Only my mother calls me that anymore," he shrugged. "And then only when she considers I've done something wrong."

"Then Gregory it shall be," Grace nodded, pleased. "But how long are we going to be here?"

"Dunno. How long we wait might depend on the envelope-dropper doing his thing so we can nab him."

"Do you really think it's going to be someone from my team doing this?" Grace felt her stomach clench with sudden anxiety. The idea that any of her people might be involved in this made her feel queasy.

"It's not your fault if it is," Greg spoke gently; he could see the idea of a snake in the grass was upsetting her. "And the sooner we catch whoever's doing this, the quicker you can get back to doing what you're good at doing."

Grace was about to thank him for his consideration, when suddenly all the lights in the room went dead. Utter blackness took them both by surprise.

"_Shit_ ... wait here," Lestrade's hands found her shoulders and gave a quick squeeze as she felt him step away towards the nearest wall so he could work his way around to the door.

There was no point in opening the curtains, she realised; all the windows on this floor had been blacked out for privacy reasons.

The door to the room opened and closed across to her right. With outstretched hands, she stepped cautiously across the open space of the bedroom, making sure she didn't bang into any furniture. It seemed an inordinately long way to the nearest wall, but her questing fingertips eventually brushed against the flat of a papered surface and then, the edge of a the doorframe. Fumbling her way to the handle, she turned the round knob until the door opened, mostly silently, and a slight draft told her that air was coming in from the passageway.

Suddenly, there was a shout, and then another yell not far from where she was standing in the doorway, but as every light in the entire place seemed to have gone, she couldn't see anything at all expect a great expanse of blackness.

More shouts, and a few, swiftly silenced screams echoed at a distance; sounds of doors opening and slamming and of people milling around in the dark. Close by there was the sound of heavy feet running blindly in the dark towards her; she could feel the vibration in the floor beneath her feet, but could see nothing in the total gloom. She had no idea who was coming her way and wasn't sure which way was the safest direction to move.

A heavy body crashed into her, sending her sideways into the wall just beyond the door, her left arm flying outwards, clutching at anything for stability, only to crack violently against the solid doorframe. The pain was fierce and sharp and she cried out with the force of it as a hot stab of flame shot up her arm.

Forcing herself to step backwards into the bedroom, Grace cradled her wounded hand against her chest, retreating into the relative safety of the room she'd just started to leave.

"_Grace!_ Are you _alright?_" Lestrade's voice echoed away off to the right hand side of the passageway.

"I'm okay," she called back, slightly breathless with shock and pain. "But someone just came belting past me, was that you?"

"Someone who tried to thump me and who I tried to catch," Greg's voice was closer now as he tracked her down by the sound of her voice. "The whole place has had the power cut; there's no lights anywhere and none of the wall-switches work."

There was a pause as footsteps approached.

"There's either been a massive short-circuit somewhere or it's deliberate," he said, arriving in the doorway. "I thought for a second I heard you yelling. Did you?"

"I banged my hand against the door when whoever it was charged past me," she said, feeling the stabbing throb in her hand gradually diminish into a pulsating ache as she held it still and protected by her other arm. "I think I might have made some kind of noise, but I'm okay now."

The lights came on, all of them. All at once.

Blinking as her eyes adjusted for a couple of seconds, it was only at Lestrade's low whistle of displeasure that she opened her eyes properly to look where he was looking; her hand.

It was covered in blood, several thin lines of it running down towards her elbow, though they were already sticky and drying even as she watched. The previously clear silvery lines of the snake's tail were darkened and smudged.

"What the hell ..?" Greg reached out with his fingers, stopping before he made contact. "Can you move your arm at all?" he asked, his eyes moving between her face and her hand. "Can you wiggle your fingers?" he watched more closely as she lifted her hand up and showed a definite, though tentative, wiggling ability.

"Good," he sighed. "Not broken. Looks bloody nasty though," he added. "A quick visit to the local Emergency department, I think."

"I don't think it's all that serious," Grace murmured as she turned the hand slowly around. The knuckles were already puffy and swollen and the skin over two of them was split, the cause of the bleeding, but it didn't seem to be worse than that. "Although it is throbbing a bit," she admitted. "Whoever barged past me pushed me back into the doorframe," she shrugged. "I'm sure I'll live," she wrinkled her nose. Making a scene wasn't really her thing and she felt somewhat self-conscious.

There was the sound of feet running up the staircase and Sherlock flew around the corner of the hallway. "Did either of you see anything?" he asked. "There was all manner of unnecessary drama downstairs when the power was cut; bodies running everywhere, including out the main entrance. Utterly impossible to tell who was what," he sniffed in disgust. "No way to identify our man in the dark. Either it was a fortuitous accident or an engineered event; I suspect the latter. That he knew an escape plan was needed suggests he has access to intelligence that we do not." He scowled, but held up a hand. "Found this though," he said, waving a yellow A4 envelope.

"Then he _did_ drop it off tonight," Grace was stunned that whoever was doing this was still able to get away with it despite every bit of surveillance she'd arranged to have put in place at work. "What's in it?" she asked, barely daring to breathe.

Carefully lifting the flap of the envelope with the corner of a credit card, Sherlock peered inside, eventually pulling a back-and-white photo of a young boy playing on a small garden slide. There was nothing salacious or unusual about the photo – just a back garden snap that might be taken a million times in a million different gardens every summer.

"Do you recognise him?" Sherlock held the picture up for Grace's assessment.

She shook her head; she'd never seen the child before.

"Does this kid belong to any of your staff?" Greg asked. "Have you see this photo anywhere at all?" he paused. "_Think_, Grace, it's important."

Casting her memory around all the photos she'd seen lately, there had been a couple of them in the morning newspaper; some in the window of a children's shop, advertising a special; Shane Meath had his three kids up on his computer, but this boy wasn't one of his; she'd seen Meath's photos before; all his children had dark hair, and the child by the slide was very blonde. None of the other staff had pictures of children anywhere, not even framed on their desks.

"I've never seen this photo before," she spoke confidently. "He's no relation to any of my team that I know of, I'm positive," she added, shaking her head.

"Mycroft's people will be able to examine it in however much detail is required," Sherlock lowered the photograph back into the envelope. "If there's anything to be found, they'll hopefully exert themselves to find it."

"Then there's no further reason for us to stay here?" Lestrade wanted to be sure before he left anything undone. "It's just that Grace got caught by some idiot charging down the hallway in the dark and bashed her hand," he nodded towards the blood-stained injury. "I think she should have it looked at by a doctor, just in case."

"It's really not all that painful," Grace made a doubtful face as she peered down at her knuckles. They were quite swollen by now and there was a rapidly spreading bruise covering the back of her hand. What with the drying blood and blue-black bruising, it wasn't looking terribly pretty.

"John should be here," Sherlock mused, ducking down to bring his eyes level with the injured hand. "Doesn't seem in any imminent danger of falling off, but I'd prefer John's opinion."

"John?" Grace raised her eyebrows.

"Doctor John Watson, sometime GP and my blogger," Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he touched the tip of her middle finger.

Yelping, Grace jerked back as a spike of pain coursed up her arm.

"Hmm," Sherlock looked at her from beneath his furrowed eyebrows. "You may have dislocated the _digitus medius_," he stood back, frowning. "John would know."

"Well no need to bother John at this time of the night," Lestrade stood upright. "I'll take her into Bart's minor injuries unit, it's the closest," he said, taking charge as if it were the most normal thing to do. "You okay until we get there?" he asked, looking down into a pair of calm grey eyes.

"I really am fine," Grace sounded embarrassed. "There's no need to worry about this," she waved her hand a little. "I'm sure it'll be fine once the swelling goes down."

"If she doesn't want to see a doctor, Inspector ..?." Sherlock looked sideways at Lestrade.

"Okay, enough, both of you," Greg made sure Grace's coat was fastened so she wouldn't have to fuss with it _enroute_. "We'll get a separate taxi, so you'll not be inconvenienced," he looked at Sherlock as if the matter was decided.

"But if Doctor Chandler doesn't want to go ..?"

"Oh goodness," Grace looked between the two of them. "It hurts, so I supposed I should get it looked at, at least," she shrugged one shoulder. "If Gregory doesn't mind taking me there, then I'm hardly going to complain, am I?"

"Gregory?" Sherlock looked surprised and vaguely suspicious. "_Gregory?_"

"Yeah? It's my name," Lestrade shook his head wondering what all the fuss was about. "You'll get that photo to Mycroft and Palmer, and let him know what happened here tonight, will you?" His fingers brushed Grace's good arm. "And I'll get you looked at," he said, turning back to her. "Although we may need to leave that coffee for another night."

"_Coffee?_" the younger Holmes seemed to be inexplicably curious this evening.

"Sherlock, what _is_ your problem?" Greg was the one sounding suspicious now, wondering if there was something he'd missed.

"Nothing at all, _Gregory_," the younger Holmes drew himself up into dignified silence. "I'll text you after I've spoken with Mycroft."

"You do that," Lestrade gave the tall, dark-haired man a strange look as Grace walked along the passage ahead of them. _What was going on in that mad brain?_

In his solo taxi, heading back to Baker Street, Sherlock examined the photograph once again in the dimmed internal lights of the vehicle. There was nothing in the image that suggested location or even time, though the child's clothing said summer, and the angle of the shadows meant the photo had been taken sometime between two and four in the afternoon. The garden was probably in Britain, judging by the manufacturer's stamp on the base of the plastic slide, which was of fairly recent genesis. But exactly where, and precisely how long ago the photo had been taken was a mystery. He could think of at least five ways in which the image might be concealing information, but if the child's picture represented some form of symbol or codified message, then help was needed in order to ascertain the meaning behind the symbol. Part of him hoped, it wouldn't be quite that obscure. Part of him hoped it would.

Perhaps Mycroft's people would be able to extract the finer details. Despite the hour, he lifted his phone and began a text to his brother.

###

It was so late, it was early.

Having given up on sleep, Mycroft sat in his study at home going through overnight Comms traffic and wondering for the umpteenth time what on earth his brother and the inspector were doing running around some of the less salubrious parts of London with Grace Chandler in tow. Lifting a tall silver pot, he poured himself a second cup of coffee and deliberated the question.

The earlier text he'd received from Sherlock was typically frustrating in its brevity. _Accompanying Lestrade and Chandler to Miltons. Your Archivist in leading role. SH_

And he'd attached a bloody photo, damn him.

Knowing precisely what Milton's was, or at least, what it purported to be, the elder Holmes had no idea what 'leading role' Grace Chandler might be playing, but judging by her outfit and her decidedly _louche_ appearance, he doubted it would be anything she'd put on her CV. And what was she even _doing_ with his brother and Lestrade in the first place? Damn it all; she had no right to be doing this! She was quite possibly endangering the entire operation! Obviously she had felt that any passive actions on her part were insufficient, he shook his head. He should have known she wouldn't be satisfied with merely looking on while others took a more active stance.

And what did Sherlock mean ... _your_ archivist? No doubt his private life was to furnish Sherlock's amusement for the foreseeable future ... _why in heaven's name had he felt the need to unburden himself to his brother about his liaison with Grace Chandler?_

Placing a hand across his eyes, Mycroft sighed tiredly. Lacking any reasonable rest, the coming day was likely to be arduous, not that it would be the first time he'd managed without sleep, but for some reason, he wasn't feeling entirely at his best. Perhaps he really was coming down with some virus or other.

Picking up his phone, he flicked back to the photo of the beautiful blonde in a black dress that left very little to the imagination. And that snake on her arm ... parts of him recalled the dream that had roused him from sleep, and he cleared his throat with another sip of hot coffee. Focusing on her face, he narrowed his eyes in thought. She'd lost weight, he realised; the shadows around the bones of her face were fractionally deeper and her waist was significantly reduced in span. Had she been ill? He frowned a little. Not that her wellbeing or otherwise was any concern of his ...

The phone in his hand pinged gently. Another incoming text from Sherlock. _What now_, he wondered.

_Your Archivist injured. Lestrade accompanying her to Bart's emergency for immediate treatment. Suggest your presence advisable. SH_

Mycroft felt ice trickle through his veins. If Grace Chandler had been seriously hurt in the course of this investigation ... if she ...

Unrealised, his finger had already depressed the speed-dial button for his night-driver. "I need you at the door in three minutes," he said. "St Bart's Hospital, emergency admissions." Even as he ended the call, he was out of his seat and swinging the jacket of his suit around his back. Shouldering into the heavy winter coat, he grabbed a soft silk scarf and his gloves as he seized his umbrella. By the time he'd made it down to the front door, he was as wide awake as if he'd had a full eight-hours downtime.

"Bart's emergency, hurry," he snapped, lifting the phone to his ear and calling the Duty Administrator of a certain private clinic in the heart of London's West. It was a very low-profile and highly discreet organisation, both very good reasons why certain members of MI5 and MI6 made use of its facilities when the need arose. "Prepare to admit a patient in the near future," he instructed. "Yes," he nodded in the darkness of the car. "One of ours. Someone will be in touch with additional details."

The Jaguar flew through the still half-deserted streets, arriving at Bart's Accident and Emergency entrance scarcely eight minutes after he'd received Sherlock's text. Striding into the building with a familiarity born of long experience with bureaucracies, Mycroft looked around for someone who had the air of authority. Intimidating those in authority was his speciality.

A diminutive woman in a set of dark scrubs lifted her eyes from the sheaf of papers clasped in her hand. "Are you looking for someone in particular?" she asked in a melodic accent that spoke of Mumbai or Kolkata.

"One of my ... staff has been injured and brought here. I wanted to ensure they were transferred to an appropriate facility," he announced, looking around as if an ability to see through walls had suddenly been realised.

"It's been a quiet night," she said. "What's the name you're after?" she asked, lifting the pen in her hand towards a curtained room. "We had someone come in not five minutes ago ..." she was interrupted by Mycroft's curt nod of thanks as he swivelled towards the rippling fabric, only to come to an abrupt halt as Lestrade appeared through the heavy curtain.

"Thought I heard your dulcet tones," he nodded, an expression of curiosity in his eyes. "I assume you're here because of Sherlock?"

"One of his enigmatic texts," Mycroft inhaled sharply through his nose. "He said Grace Chandler had been injured and that you were bringing her here for emergency treatment. It sounded serious."

Greg pursed his lips and shook his head, smiling. "Typical Sherlock," he looked apologetic. "It's not _that_ serious," he added. "We almost caught someone at Milton's, but the power was cut and Grace was thumped in the dark. She hurt her hand, but it's not exactly life-threatening. I'm taking her home once she's finished here."

Mycroft paused as the information sank in. That Grace wasn't badly hurt was more of a relief than he had any right to expect. That she was being accompanied by the inspector was both sensible and logical. That Lestrade had called her _Grace_ and was waiting to take her home was oddly displeasing.

"She's in there with the nurse now," Lestrade pointed to the curtained space. "They only treat minor injuries here; her hand took a bit of a battering, but they said she would be fine."

Mycroft decided he would be the judge of that and parted the curtain to peer inside.

Grace was sitting comfortably in a high chair, resting her left hand on the chair's wide, sloping arm. The skin of her wrist and hand was in the process of being cleaned by a young male nurse, exposing the small, but jagged wounds across her middle knuckles.

Expecting it to be Greg re-entering the cubicle, as soon as she saw who it was, the emerging smile on her face died. "Why are you here?" she asked eventually, trying hard to sound indifferent.

Disregarding the nurse and stepping forward to examine her injuries in closer detail, Mycroft's gaze took in the swollen and damaged hand. No stitches would be required, but it would be painful for several days. She wasn't going to be able to do much.

"I was on my way into the office when I received Sherlock's text," he said. "A minor detour to ensure Gerald Palmer would not need to immediately re-advertise your post seemed advisable," he said, watching her face pinch with pain as the nurse was less than gentle. "You should take a couple of days off to let it recover."

_Why couldn't he stay out of her life?_ He'd made it painfully clear a long time ago that she wasn't wanted, so why couldn't he simply leave her alone? Grace felt an underlying anger colour her words. "Take time off in my first week on the job?" she snapped the question. "Are you mad? I shall be fine; it's not as if I'm left-handed or anything."

"You are fortunate the injuries were not worse," Mycroft's lips flattened as he saw her frown in discomfort while the nurse pressed butterfly-strips across the split skin. "What you were doing taking part in any activity beyond your direct mandate is grist for a later conversation. What on _earth_ possessed you to join forces with the inspector and my brother? Though Inspector Lestrade is a reasonably perspicacious individual, I cannot say the same for Sherlock."

"Your brother is one of the nicest people I've met in a long time," Grace gritted out the words as the nursed lifted her wrist to commence bandaging. "He must have inherited all the pleasant genes in your family," she hissed softly, biting her bottom lip.

_Sherlock ... nice?_

"In addition to your hand, did you also receive an injury to your head?" Mycroft was mystified. "Believe me when I say that my brother, though possessed of several commendable attributes, is not one of nature's most amenable individuals."

"Then I must be extra lucky because he was entirely pleasant to me," Grace closed her eyes and sucked down a breath as the nurse lifted her hand into a padded, figure-of-eight loop that he fixed around her neck.

Mycroft stopped himself from wincing as her face paled. "If you prefer not to take time off for medical reasons, can you at least work from home today?" he suggested. "I am aware you have a great deal of policy-reading relevant to your new post to get through; it might be an efficient use of time that also assists with any immediate discomfort."

Loathe though she was to agree with him, it _was_ a good idea. She did have a ton of reading to crawl through, and she probably wasn't going to be at her most agile in the office today ...

Grace sighed. "That's actually a sensible suggestion," she nodded reluctantly. "I'll arrange it."

"No need," pulling out his Hunter, Mycroft checked the time. It was still a little too early to expect a response to a phone call, but a text might suffice in this instance. In a second, he had his Nokia in his fingers and was rattling off a brief message to Gerald Palmer.

"Done," he announced, a barely discernable smile of satisfaction curving his mouth.

"Done? Great," Lestrade stepped around the elder Holmes and extended a hand to Grace as she moved to escape the chair. She was a little awkward with the encumbrance of the sling and lost her balance for a moment.

"Here," Greg stepped closer, gently sliding her coat around her shoulders and extending a supporting hand beneath her good arm. "Lean on me; don't want you doing any more damage tonight, do we?"

For some reason, Mycroft was almost prepared to find fault with the inspector's solicitude, although it was perfectly obvious that it was merely an act of thoughtfulness and consideration. He inhaled sharply. The lack of sleep last night and the general malaise he'd been feeling recently was clearly having a negative effect upon his normal _insouciance_.

"May I offer you both a lift across the river?" he asked, attempting to override the abnormal reaction.

"Ta, but no, Mycroft, no need," Lestrade had Grace's bag in one hand and her good elbow in the other. "Got a cab waiting outside," he grinned. "One of the perks of being in the Met is that cabbies will always wait; I expect they think it's good for their karma or something."

Watching the pair of them navigate slowly out of the room and across the somewhat busier emergency room towards the exit, Mycroft realised he was experiencing a profound state of ambivalence over the situation. He frowned. Upon observing the inspector slide his hand into the small of Grace's back to steady her through the doors, he felt discomfort in his fingers, and upon looking down, saw them clenched rather forcefully around the handle of his umbrella.

He frowned again. What was the matter with him?

###

It was just early enough that their taxi managed to skate around the beginning of the morning's peak traffic, getting them to the South Bank as the first streaks of grey dawn split the clouds.

Assisting Grace out of the cab, Lestrade walked her carefully up the wide staircase to the third floor, taking the keys from her bag and unlocking her front door.

Welcoming him inside, she kicked off her high-heels with a loud sigh of relief, padding into the kitchen to fill the kettle.

"I so desperately want a shower to get all this gunk off my face," she scratched at her cheek where the more-than-usually heavy makeup was starting to itch.

"Then off you go; I'll make tea. You want anything to eat? Breakfast, instead of that coffee we discussed?"

"Oh, would you?" Grace turned to face him, a look on her face more usually associated with puppies. "I wasn't really hungry until you mentioned food but now I'm suddenly starving. Would you mind?"

Lestrade slid out of his long winter coat and the jacket beneath as he started rolling up his sleeves. "I've been divorced long enough now to have learned quite a bit of cooking and stuff," he lifted his eyebrows. "Fancy a proper cooked breakfast?"

At the suggestion, her stomach growled loudly and she clamped her uninjured hand across it. "Sorry," Grace looked sheepish. "But you just said the magic words, I'm afraid."

Greg laughed. "One proper cooked breakfast coming up, then," he walked to the fridge. "Want anything in particular?"

"Whatever's going will be fantastic," Grace draped her coat over the back of a chair at the table and paused. "Um ..."

"Um?" Lestrade turned back from the open fridge balancing a carton of eggs, a packet of bacon, a small punnet of mushrooms and two large tomatoes.

"If you wouldn't mind ..." Grace made a face and turned her back to him. "I can't undo this this dress one-handed," she waved vaguely at the back of her neck. "There's a small clasp at the top that needs both hands, so ... if you wouldn't _mind_ ..."

Wiping his hands together, Greg squinted down at the miniscule fastening at the top of the zip. "_Jeez_," he muttered, peering. "Think they could make this any smaller?"

The sensation of his warm fingers brushing repeatedly across the nape of her neck made her quiver involuntarily. The skin there was so delicate that when her hair had been longer, even the weight of it brought on a _frisson_, at times.

"Sensitive, eh?" she could hear the smile in his voice. "I'll remember that in case I have to do this again."

"And can you pull the zip down a bit until I can reach it with my hand, please?" she asked, reaching around her back to a point mid-way between her shoulder blades. "About here, would be good."

Taking great care to go no further than the point she had indicated, Lestrade brought the fastener to within her grasp. "Now you go off and get cleaned up while I unleash my creative genius with eggs and bacon in your kitchen," he said. "Or do you need help in the shower, too?" He waggled his eyebrows and looked villainous.

"Fairly confident I can manage by myself in the shower, thanks," Grace replied tartly, a smile curling her mouth even as she walked away to find a plastic bag with which to waterproof her aching hand.

Fortunately, she had designed her bathroom as an open shower along one entire wall, with the other bathroom fitments on the opposite side, out of the water's reach. The open space thus enabled her to rotate beneath the ceiling-located shower head and let gravity and the hot water do most of the work. As the heavy stream of refreshing water cascaded over her tired and somewhat trampled body, Grace felt her mood lighten and improve. So they hadn't yet discovered who was doing this thing, or worked out how the information was being smuggled out of MI5, but at least they were onto a solid lead and nobody was about to give up on any of it, not just yet.

And certainly not _her_.

Getting hurt last night had been an unpleasant accident, but didn't mean she was going to back off and leave everything to the two men, even though they _were_ the professionals and she, at best, was a motivated bystander. She knew more about the methods of moving data from one place to another than the both Sherlock and Gregory together, and they _needed_ that knowledge if they were going to crack this problem. All she really had to do now was to get her mind to work on the problem and maybe come up with an answer or two.

As she rinsed her favourite lemon balm from her hair, Grace felt some of the anxiety of the previous night slip away, leaving her tired but far more relaxed than she had been since reading the report Palmer had given her.

Drying her hair one-handed, she slid into a towelling robe and opened the bathroom door to be greeted by the most incredible and succulent aroma of hot food. Torn between going directly to the kitchen or observing _some_ decorum and redressing first, she realised if she appeared semi-naked, the man responsible for the glorious breakfast might be embarrassed and that wasn't fair. Stomach growling, she headed into her bedroom and dragged on a soft pair of track-pants and a voluminous old grey Cambridge sweat-shirt. Following her nose, she reappeared at Lestrade's side just as several pieces of toast flung themselves up for eating. He stomach rumbled again, louder and with some quite serious intent.

"Sit down," Greg laughed. "Never let it be said that I starved you in your own home," he added, carrying over two plates and then a second time with two mugs of hot tea.

"This is _fantastic_," Grace was already into the mushrooms, and was trying to work out how to butter the toast with only one working hand when he saw her quandary.

"Here," he said, reaching across and doing the honours, held it up to her for a bite.

Crunching and chewing and smiling, Grace turned happily to her culinary saviour, just as he lifted his eyes to hers.

She could see he was laughing at her, but in a very gentle sort of way. Despite the night they'd just shared, he seemed almost carefree.

To Greg's eyes, she looked about nineteen without makeup and with her hair spiking any which way it felt like. Her smile was without the slightest reservation.

And ... there was a _moment_.

_Oh._ Grace felt everything go still as she looked into dark hazel eyes which widened unexpectedly as they looked back. There was an awkward sort of pause at the simultaneous realisation that something had just happened between them, although neither were quite sure exactly what.

"Ah ..." Greg put her toast down and turned to his own plate, suddenly interested in the salt and pepper.

"So," Grace fumbled for something neutral to say. "What's on for you today?"

"Oh, this and that," he cleared his throat and turned back to meet her gaze, the faintest of smiles on his mouth. "Though the idea of paperwork doesn't appeal all that much after what we were doing last night," he grinned again as if nothing had passed between them. "Got to grab some sleep, too," he added, rubbing an eye. "The last few hours were a bit on the manic side. What about you?"

"I'm going to stuff myself silly with your lovely breakfast and then I'm going to sleep for a few hours before I tackle a pile of reading that I was going to have a go at on Saturday. Doing it today means I'll have the weekend free, which will be nice."

"Doing anything at the weekend in particular?" Lestrade sipped his tea, his eyes focused elsewhere.

"Not that I'd made any plans for," Grace tried to think if there was anything she had to do. "Got to get some groceries, but that's about it."

"Fancy going to the pictures?" he sipped his tea again, staring aimlessly into the middle distance.

Grace felt herself wanting to smile. "Is this you asking me out?" she fought to keep her voice level; to laugh now would be extraordinarily bad-mannered.

"Might be," Greg turned to gauge her expression. It seemed generally encouraging. "There's a re-run of some classic 1950 Sci-Fi's at the Barbican," he said. "They're showing _The Day the Earth Stood Still_ on Saturday night ... fancy giving it a go?"

Thinking for a moment, Grace looked very serious. "Klaatu barada nikto?" she asked, smiling again as Lestrade's eyes grew even wider than before. "You're a fan too?"

"You might be surprised to learn what I know about science fiction," Grace returned to her breakfast. "Never assume."

"I never will with you," Greg swallowed more tea and finished off the last of his eggs. He sighed. "If I go now, are you going to be alright with everything, with that?" he indicated her bandaged hand and wrist. "If there's anything you need me to do before I leave..?"

_Kiss me goodbye_, a ghost-voice flitted through her thoughts.

"Not a thing, thanks," she smiled. "You done everything above and beyond the call of duty," she waved a second piece of toast at him. "Off you go and get some shut-eye."

"You're sure you don't need me to turn down your bed or get some fresh milk or set your alarm or anything?" Greg couldn't stop himself from teasing; the mood between them was so comfortable.

"Positive, thank you," Grace looked up at him from beneath raised eyebrows. "I have a wonky hand, not a wonky everything."

"Just checking," Greg slid into his suit jacket. "If you need anything for later, you'll let me know?"

"If I need anything for later, I can probably organise it for myself," she looked at him assessingly.

"_Probably?_" he asked, meeting her gaze.

"Definitely," she agreed, as he picked up his overcoat. "You'll let me know of any developments?"

"Of course," Greg grinned as she walked him out to the front door through an amazing, circular book room. He would like to have a closer look at some of these books, one day, he realised. "You're on the team now."

###

"Utterly ridiculous," Sherlock crossed his legs and folded his arms. "The only motive behind sending those texts was to ensure you were adequately briefed on the progress of the investigation," he paused, looking petulant. "You would rather remain ignorant of the fact that Doctor Chandler, indirectly one of you _own_ senior staff, had attached herself to our little investigation?"

Waiting for an initial forensic report on the photograph taken from Milton's, there was little the two Holmes brothers could do other than stare at each other in silence or engage in some form of conversation, no matter how desultory.

Sat behind his desk, Mycroft said nothing and reserved judgement on his sibling's statement. It was entirely possible Sherlock was speaking the unvarnished truth, had it not been for one small, but not insignificant point.

"She said you were very _nice_ to her," Mycroft linked his fingers across his lap. Had it not been for that one telling point, he might have passed the whole thing off as Sherlock being in snit at having now to deal with _two_ lesser beings rather than Lestrade alone. "You're not even pleasant to Mummy when you think she's interfering, so why you would want to be _nice_ to Doctor Chandler, a complete stranger, is beyond my ken. I am intrigued to learn the reason behind such _niceness_."

"I can't be nice to someone when I feel like it?"

"An altruistic response?" Mycroft's incredulous expression said it all. "Not without some extraordinarily good reason, Sherlock, no; I'm not sure you could be."

There was a pause as both sides of the debate marshalled their arguments.

"She likes me," opting for directness, Sherlock flicked some invisible fluff from the knee of his suit trousers. "Doctor Chandler picked up I was Alpha straight away; not sure how, but I saw the recognition on her face, almost at the same instant as she started to wonder about our parents."

"Our parents?" Mycroft was momentarily puzzled, until the obvious explanation became clear. "Of course," he nodded. "Being an Omega herself, Grace would know all about the _per capita_ birth-ratio and the extreme unlikelihood of two Alpha children in the one brood."

_He still thought of the Chandler woman as 'Grace'_, Sherlock noted. _Interesting_.

"Her thinking _was_ on the obvious side," Sherlock made something of a face. "She didn't need to open her mouth; it was written all over her face. Didn't you find such transparency a little wearing when you and she were ... _ah_ ..?"

"Actually, no," Mycroft looked off into the middle distance as he recalled how invigorating discussions had been between them. "It was ..." he blinked and looked down for a second. "It's none of your business," he said softly but with an air of finality. "I'd prefer we not discuss that particular past, if you don't mind."

"She wondered how father managed to cope with the three of us," totally ignoring his brother's attempt to close down the topic, Sherlock released a flicker of smile. "I think she'd get on with him rather well, don't you?"

Despite himself, an image of her arrived in his mind's eye: standing in his parent's kitchen, looking out through one of the broad-paned windows, down towards the bottom of the kitchen garden, a pensive expression on her features.

Observing his brother's gaze grow briefly but unmistakably distant, Sherlock kept his external expression immobile. Internally, however, was another matter.

_Really brother?_

The moment was broken by an understated knock on the door.

"Yes?" Mycroft was instantly alert.

"The preliminary forensic report on the photograph, sir," a discreet admin placed a thin file in his hands.

"Thank you," Mycroft scanned the report, a frown developing between his eyes.

"Well?" Sherlock was done with waiting. "What does the photo contain?"

Lifting his eyes slowly away from the several printed sheets, the elder Holmes was clearly displeased.

"Nothing," he said. "Apparently it contains _nothing_," he said, handing the file across to his brother. "The photograph appears to be exactly what it purports to be, no microdots, no hidden audio in the grey tones, no sub-images. _Nothing_."

"That's impossible," Sherlock looked annoyed. "There _has_ to be something in the photo; there would be no earthly reason for it to be there if it were simply what is seems to be."

"See for yourself," Mycroft waited as Sherlock took in all the data. "My people may find something with further tests, however, so let's not write this off just yet."

Biting his lower lip, the younger Holmes grunted in frustration. "Then we need to get Chandler's opinion," he murmured. "And see if she's as good as she thinks she is."

"Grace Chandler will not be in her office today, the inspector escorted her home from the hospital. Her injury will heal faster with respite and I recommended she work from home. She needs to rest."

"Now who's being _nice?_" Sherlock tilted his head as he evaluated his brother's action. "I'm not the only one from whom an altruistic response might seem unlikely," he added, mockingly. "Give me the report and I'll go and see her."

It was the logical thing to do, but Mycroft felt a rising level of uneasiness. There had never been any intention of involving Grace in this situation beyond the limits of her office, but she had already placed herself in danger and suffered the consequences of such an action. That Sherlock seemed happy to work with her boded well for the investigation, but was it likely to expose her to further, and possibly more perilous, threat.

As his brother disappeared from the confines of the room, Mycroft Holmes leaned forward on his desk, resting his chin on clasped hands.

The tension he was experiencing was acute and palpable, and he had no real idea why.


	5. Chapter 5 The Perilous Day

**The Perilous Day**

_A Dangerous Discovery – Sleep First – Lestrade is Unhappy – Mycroft's Getting of Knowledge – The Bigger Picture – Attack – A Fatal Act – An Abdication of Privilege._

#

#

As he logged onto his internal email, Colin Ward noted the brief message from his new manager to say that she was working from home for the day and that if anyone wanted anything from her, they should email as she'd be online virtually all day reading policy documents.

Responding tartly that rank had its privileges, the young man grinned widely and set about getting the place back into shape. Knowing the computer technicians and installation people would have completed their upheaval of the department, he'd decided to come in earlier than usual so that he might begin imposing some order on the chaos. It would be great if they could get everything shipshape and back to full working condition before the boss returned the following day, but he somehow doubted everyone would be as keen to get things organised as he was.

Colly sighed. He was fated to be one of nature's more organised individuals with an innate dislike of mess and disorder. Standing in the doorway of his own small office, he rested both hands on his hips and looked around for the best place to begin.

There were several large cardboard boxes piled higgledy-piggledy in one corner; they would make excellent containers for all the waste-product wrappings and packing materials that inevitably accompanied any kind of delivery these days. And since there had been so much new stuff brought into the general department space over the last three days, then a great deal of the mess that so offended his eye was all this loose rubbish piled everywhere.

He would start with clearing up the wrappings and smaller boxes and leave them by the door for the cleaners to take.

No sooner decided, than he hung his jacket around the back of his chair and began in his own space. It was amazing just how much crap there was associated with the unpacking of a new computer these days, even a laptop and keyboard and mouse, and there was plastic everywhere and annoying bit of polystyrene that floated away when swept into a bin. Eventually, however, he was satisfied that he'd been able to reclaim his own space from the explosion of rubbish that had started to take over.

Once that was cleared, he ventured out into the wider communal space that linked all the other offices. Based on the time it had taken him to clear his own small space, Colin felt his heart sink. This was going to take _ages_. It would probably be less demotivating to attack it in smaller sections throughout the day; attempting to do the whole space in one go was a big ask.

Checking his watch, he realised he had maybe another fifteen minutes before the rest of the team trooped in, so he might as well make the best use of it and have a go at clearing out one or two of the other offices before their owners arrived.

Heading directly into the office to his left, thankful that each door had remained unlocked while the technicians needed to do their thing, Colin began dragging the heavy lengths of clear plastic and protective cardboard into one of the big boxes he'd brought with him. Having to step into the box and jump up and down on the contents a few times, he nevertheless managed to get all but the smallest pieces cleaned away. Checking that there was still time, he grabbed another empty box and stepped into the office next to the one he'd just tidied, and repeated the task.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Colly noticed that there were broken chunks of polystyrene all over the desk, and he dragged the box closer as he hooked his arm across the desktop, pulling all the floating white bits into a pile and thence into the box. In doing so, his fingers accidently nudged the wireless mouse, and the dual screens of the new computer sprang to life in glorious Technicolor. The computer screen had obviously been left on from the previous night, and needed only the smallest movement to awaken and be ready for use.

It was only then, as his eyes were naturally dragged to the visual stimulation, that Colin saw something was ... different. The images that he saw on the computer's desktop were not those that he had seen before. Of course, _everyone_ refreshed and updated their screen savers and desktop images from time to time, but this ... this was odd for some reason, but he couldn't quite put his finger on why. It was just ...

But what did he know? There was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for the images, and it was really none of his business. Pushing the mouse back towards the keyboard, he completed clearing away all the large pieces of white crumbly stuff, packing the rest of the box with a few loose bits of paper on the floor. At least the cleaners could get in here tonight and clean the place properly.

Dragging the half-filled box out into the middle of the room by the new circular table he realised the others would be here soon and any attempt to clean around them would probably be met with complaints. He'd go and grab himself a cup of tea before getting to grips with his usual daily routine.

Ruth Lannagan was the first in, peeling out of her heavy coat as she made her way into her office, realising that someone – probably Colly – had started on the mess. She decided to see what she could do to clear out her own office before she got into anything too heavy to stop. Right after she got her morning caffeine fix.

Stratford was next, checking his text-messages as he shambled slowly into the main office. Blinking as he looked around, all he could see was that things were finally nice and quiet again. He could get back to his work without having to keep dodging men in grey overalls, carrying large boxes and yelling at each other in annoyingly loud voices. Shane Meath was right behind the older man, speaking over his shoulder with Magda Borowski as they walked past the older man, almost unaware of his presence, so deep were they in their conversation. Sighing, Stratford waited patiently until there was sufficient space between them for him to slip into his own room.

"I'm having a bit of a clean-up in case anyone wants to get rid of anything major," Colly sang out as he walked back in with a mug of steaming tea.

"Have you been in my office?" Ruth stuck her head out the door. "There's all sorts of things been moved around."

"Yes I was, about ten minutes ago, but I only picked up the rubbish the technicians from Premises department left lying around," the young redhead's answer was only half-focused as he checked his own email again in case there were any further messages from She Who Must be Obeyed. "If there's anything gone missing, then speak to Premises, not me," he yelled back, his eyes still on his own computer screens. "I'm only the low-paid underling who cleans up the mess around here," he muttered as an afterthought.

"Seen the Boss yet this morning?" Shane Meath wandered back into the main central space, hands in his jacket pockets.

"Oh yeah, she's not coming in today," Colly looked out through his office door at the older man. "Doctor ... _Grace_ emailed me and said to tell everyone she was working from home today; something about a pile of reading to get through."

"So she won't be in all day?" Ruth joined them, her arms folded across her chest.

"Not according to her email," Colin looked at the two of them hovering outside his door. "Why? Is there a problem? She said anyone could email her if they wanted something as she was going to be online, reading."

"Who's been messing about with my desk?" Stratford Thomas appeared behind them. "My stuff's all over the place."

Sighing loudly, Colin turned to deal with the new complaint. "I went around a few offices this morning to pick up the worst of the rubbish which is now over there," he pointed to the stacked cardboard boxes in the corner by the main door. "I tried not to touch anything else. If there's any other mess, then it wasn't me that did it."

"Not to worry, lad," Stratford wandered off back towards his own private bit of space. "We'll have the place looking nice for her before she comes back," he chuckled quietly.

Rolling his eyes, Colin Ward shook his head at the pettiness of people. He had only been trying to help. Let them take care of the mess by themselves, if that was all the gratitude he got.

He had no idea one of his colleagues was ready to commit murder.

###

Grace cleared up the kitchen after Gregory's grand gesture, smiling when she saw he'd stacked everything neatly in the sink to soak before they were to go in the dishwasher. Clearly being divorced had brought a certain amount of domestication with it.

Filling the dishwasher one-handed was a slower-than-usual job, but within a few minutes the kitchen was its glossy, pristine self and she could put her mind to other things.

Wondering if she should bother getting properly dressed, Grace wrinkled her nose and thought what the hell; she was hardly expecting any visitors today; who cared what she looked like. Her hand was throbbing quite badly though, so she took a couple of Nurofen and walked to her desk in the book-room wondering if she should use the sling she'd been given at Barts.

Booting up her computer, she had to wait a little longer than normal as her start-up routines expanded to take in the new software she'd uploaded for her work at MI5, including a whole load of new security and encryption programs. Fortunately, she had invested well when she'd bought the computer and had ample storage and processing power for any work she may choose to do at home, such as today.

Typing out a brief email message to Colin Ward saying she'd be working at home if anyone wanted to speak with her, she checked on any incoming mails, smiling at another message popped up – a cheeky reply from Colly. Sitting waiting for any other messages to come through, Grace felt her eyes closing and realised she'd be good for nothing without some sleep first.

Leaving the computer on, she rolled herself out of her chair and plodded into her bedroom, closing both the navy ceiling blinds and the substantial window curtains to bring the large room into several wonderfully dim shades of deep blue. With everything closed up like this, she always felt as if she were in a submarine world of silence and safety.

Ensuring her phone was by the bed, she curled up under the duvet, her throbbing hand resting on top of the bedding as her eyes closed again and the soft coolness of the pillow felt so satisfyingly comforting.

She was asleep in less than a minute.

###

Deciding to first alert Lestrade as to the less than promising results of the various tests thus far undertaken on the photograph, Sherlock hailed a cab and directed it to the far end of Northwick Close, where a plain black-painted door set into a large brick wall bore a sign on the letter-box flap advising passers-by to beware of the dog. There was another sign on the door that strictly forbade any parking in its general vicinity, a proclamation Lestrade clearly felt able to ignore as his roughly-parked silver-blue BMW attested.

Fully aware that the inspector had never owned a dog in his life, Sherlock lost no time in hammering on the door with his fist until the curtains of several upstairs windows further down the street twitched at the racket.

Finally, the black door swung inwards to reveal a very groggy and rumpled-looking officer of the law.

"Bloody _hell_, Sherlock," the silver-haired man groused, thoroughly unhappy being woken up less than an hour after going to sleep. "You mightn't need to get your head down while you're working, but the rest of us mere mortals actually need a bit of shut-eye on a fairly regular basis," he grumbled, inviting his visitor in while rubbing his eyes with the heel of one hand and filling the kettle to make tea.

The kitchen of this house was sufficiently compact that Lestrade's lean length was able to brace itself against one side and rest a foot against the opposite cabinetry.

The house was something of an anomaly, being built almost as an afterthought once the other mews cottages had been completed and there was a tiny, odd-shaped sliver of land going begging at the end of the street; too small to make much of, but too big to leave unoccupied.

Regardless of architectural fashion, no builder at any time in the last one-thousand years has ever been accused of wasting space in London, and so the smallest of homes was wedged into the gap; a single, unlikely door facing out into the mews, while the back of the dwelling abutted the gardens of the much larger St John's Wood Road houses behind it.

After his divorce, Greg had actually been looking for a small flat but was alerted to the possibilities of Number Six, Northwick Close, after a drugs raid by Vice further down the mews.

"Something you might like down the end of the road," D.I. Burdett gave him the nod. "Heard you was after new digs; better grab it fast."

Greg had gone round to see it that very afternoon and made the agent an offer on the spot. Given that he was with the police and that the house, tiny though it was, needed a fair bit of putting right, the current owner was only too glad to shift the sale as rapidly as possible. Lestrade had moved in ten days after he'd first seen it and had no intention of moving anywhere else.

The weirdest combination of bungalow and granny-flat, Greg had fallen in love with this, literally a hole-in-the-wall house, and had spent the time since his divorce putting it to rights. It now suited him down to the ground and was half home, half office and half workshop.

Overshadowed on three sides by houses taller than his, Lestrade had had the builders punch holes in the new roof he'd had to put on, getting them to install a series of polycarbonate skylights all the way through the L-shaped property, letting buckets of natural light inside but without any privacy worries. He had also ripped out just about every non-load bearing wall, making several small rooms into one much larger space, far easier to navigate. What had once been a dark and unloved little house was now a place of open legroom and relaxation.

The long end of the 'L' was the part of the house immediately accessed by the deceptively weather-beaten door to the mews, and encompassed his living space, including a large lounge-diner and a galley-style kitchen, with a tiny closed-in laundry and covered outside area where he could hang his washing to dry. Right next to the laundry was a new bathroom which was basically a large shower at one end and a sink and mirrored cabinet at the other. A separate toilet had been installed in what used to be a large, walk-in cupboard opposite the bathroom entrance. Right next to that was the one single bedroom. It used to be two small ones, but Greg had figured anyone wanting to stay with him would probably be prepared to kip down on the sofa, and had knocked the two bedrooms into one decent-sized one which he had turned into a comfortable place of dark browns, taupe and white. It was easy on the eye and took little caring for.

The middle, corner-part of the L-shape was his office because there were more walls left there than anywhere else and what wasn't covered with window, was covered with shelves and filing cabinets. He had additional security added into the new windows, and paid for some good-quality alarms to be fitted everywhere. Just in case.

The last section of the house, farthest from the street entrance, was what he liked to think of as his _man-cave_. Essentially a workshop, there was a big central workbench fitted with electricity; several skydomes for additional light; a couple of old leather armchairs and a small table with a lamp for him to sit and watch the ancient old TV hanging from the wall on a large L-bracket. A small bar-fridge stood off to the left of one of the chairs, currently filled with his favourite beer and with a bottle of decent vodka stashed away in the minute freezer compartment.

The workbench was covered in all sorts of half-completed things; bits of carpentry; a shelf he was fixing, two mugs under repair. Simple stuff, really.

But it was _his_ stuff, and things _he_ was able to do when _he_ felt like doing them. Lestrade hadn't been this at peace with his life in years. He liked living here; it wasn't far to work, only taking him anywhere between twelve and twenty minutes to get to the Yard in the morning, depending on traffic. Even the people in the _street_ liked having a copper around the place, saying how much quieter and nicer it had become since he'd moved in. That had made him smile a bit.

Pointing the younger Holmes towards a seat in the lounge, Greg was still yawning are he carried in two steaming mugs of tea, plonking one down in front of the younger man with more than a touch of irritation.

"I'm not as young as some, y'know," he muttered pointedly, settling into his usual armchair. "I find I usually do better on several _consecutive_ hours of sleep rather than half-a-dozen random ones scattered about over a twenty-four hour period."

"There's no time for sleep until we find out who's behind the photo-drop, and exactly how, whatever it is they're doing, is actually done."

"No joy on the photo, then?" Lestrade felt his brain coming slowly online as he sipped the scalding hot tea.

"Not yet," Sherlock frowned mightily. "Mycroft's waiting for other tests, but I believe our resident document expert should add her voice of experience to the mix."

"Grace?" Greg shrugged. "She did say she was the professional in this game."

"She did indeed," Sherlock passed him Mycroft's file. "There's not much, but you will probably want to see it."

"And what makes you think Grace can add anything to this?" Lestrade squinted once again at the image of the child in the garden.

_He calls her Grace,_ Sherlock noted, narrowing his eyes at the thought. "I'm sure Doctor Chandler will have some suggestions regardless," he waved his hand airily as he sipped his tea. "We can call in to see her once you have made yourself somewhat more respectable."

"Not for the next few hours, we're not," Greg shook his head. "She's got a bashed hand and she was almost out on her feet when I left her place after breakfast this morning," he added. "No way are we going to drag her awake the way you've done me."

_They had breakfasted together._

Sighing loudly and rolling his eyes, Sherlock looked very much put-upon. "Then at what time do you _suggest_ we awaken our document expert from her slumbers?"

Greg checked the wall clock. It was just after nine now. "Give her until midday," he advised. "That way, she'll have had five hours and will probably be awake in any case, doing her reading."

Sherlock felt the inspector knew far too much about the Chandler-woman's schedule than was warranted. His eyes narrowed again in contemplation. "Then in the meantime, I suggest we consider our next possible steps in the investigation," he said. "Especially if the photograph proves to be unhelpful; we need an alternative way forward."

"Did Mycroft have the CCTV going after you told him where we were headed?" Greg wanted to know what information they had to play with.

"Yes, but again, nothing was terribly useful. Apparently, the cameras only caught the backs of the few people who entered the premises after we did, and we can't even be sure the man wasn't already here before we arrived."

"And what about after the power cut?" Lestrade wanted to be sure. "Anything of use on the cameras then?"

"Only a small mass of shadowy forms struggling to get away from the building as rapidly as they might make good their escape, and a few car registrations," Sherlock grimaced. "All in all, not a terribly helpful state of events."

"The what are we left with?" Greg rubbed his eyes again. "I doubt he, whoever _he_ is, is likely to head back to Milton's after last night's little debacle; nor is he going to be handing out business-cards at his new choice of drop."

"Quite," Sherlock steepled his fingers. "The perhaps we may need to do this the old-fashioned way and investigate each and every member of Doctor Chandler's team."

Lestrade grinned. "You mean actually resorting to good old coppering?" he asked with a laugh. "Taking statements and comparing bank accounts and the like?"

"If absolutely necessary, then we must," Sherlock sounded less than happy. "And in the meantime I shall review all the CCTV tapes to be quite sure none of my brother's minions missed anything. I suggest we meet up at the Chandler residence immediately prior to noon."

"Great," Greg yawned. "Means I get to crawl back into my nice, cosy bed for another couple of hours," he waved at the younger man as he stood. "Lock the door behind you," he said, yawning again, heading towards the bedroom.

Walking down the mews towards the main street and the nearest probability of a cab, Sherlock had two key thoughts on his mind. The first was some way to connect a man in Grace Chandler's team with a visit to Milton's Gentlemen's Club the previous evening; it simply couldn't be that difficult to do.

The second was how to keep the inspector away from a woman he was showing every sign of finding increasingly attractive.

###

Mycroft replaced the red phone onto its receiver. He was not terribly pleased with the progress of events. While it was clear that at least one member of Grace's team was likely to be involved with the ongoing conspiracy to sell classified materials, there was no way, as yet, to be sure who it was. Simply because a man was the one who usually delivered to materials to the bordello, did not mean he was in the Archive team; he could be another intermediary, although that was on the unlikely side.

And if it _was_ one of the men in the team, then which one? There were only the three of them. Young Colin Ward, barely out of school and not yet in his twenties, hardly an obvious candidate for the role. Even if the boy was sufficiently clever to mastermind such a technically convoluted orchestration of events, nothing in his background suggested he'd lived long enough to garner enough knowledge and skills to engineer anything of the kind. Regardless of whether Mr Ward might have _wanted_ to become a villain, the odds were strongly against his current ability to _be_ one.

This left the two older men.

Stratford Thomas was certainly old enough and experienced enough to manipulate the missing information in a variety of ways; he probably knew just about every possibly method of converting one form of information into another. But he had led a blameless and somewhat desultory life after his wife had died several years ago, and had moved into the upstairs room of his youngest daughter's house and, by all accounts, was perfectly happy there, as was the family to have him in their midst. Though he wasn't a wealthy individual, the man had the proceeds from the sale of his house, a not insubstantial sum, as well as the modest insurance pay-out upon his wife's untimely death of heart disease. That, combined with both his current salary and the solid pension awaiting him in a couple of years, made it less and less likely he would involve himself in such a venture. According to all intel there was to be had on the man, he was perfectly happy living an almost invisible lifestyle.

That only left Shane Meath. A much younger man in his late thirties, still recovering from a double disaster. First, a financial one in which he lost his own company, a dire situation, almost immediately followed by a swift and acrimonious divorce which cost him not only his marriage, but also the custody of his three young children, all currently abiding with the ex-wife in the north of the country. Such events would leave anyone feeling less than satisfied with their lot, perhaps to the point that some measure of recompense might be sought, even if such recompense might be taken in a form considered illegal by others.

Of the three men in the Archives Department, Meath would appear to be the most likely suspect, except he had been nowhere near Milton's last night; a tail had been placed on all the staff the minute Grace had agreed to monitor the actions of her team.

Nor were the two women likely participants either, with both of them reported as staying at home last evening; Ruth Lannagan in her small studio flat in Battersea, and Magda Borowski at her brother's house at Wembley. According to the reports, neither woman had gone out at all. Nor had any of the Archive's team left a digital train of any real indiscretion; a few ill-worded emails, some questionable website visits, but nothing at all out of the ordinary. And other than Shane Meath, there wasn't even a financial motive for any of them.

_Which was all entirely frustrating and got the investigation nowhere._

Sitting at his desk deep in thought, Mycroft's contemplations were interrupted by Anthea with tea and a small plate with two, he counted them carefully, _two_ chocolate digestive biscuits. He leaned back, an expression of wary expectation written across his features.

"How bad is it?" he asked, wondering which particular ceasefire had collapsed in the last ten minutes. "Domestic or foreign?" he added quickly, his mind poised to fly along any one of a dozen different pathways of calamity.

"Nothing disastrous," she smiled, pouring his tea. "But there are a few things in here you should really know, but which I doubt you do," she added, placing a solid-looking text book on the table beside him, a number of pages already marked with different coloured sticky labels.

_Genetic Variations of Homo Sapiens Sapiens_.

Frowning, he tapped fingertips on the shiny cover. "And why am I to read this now? In the midst of several, time-critical operations, with not only our own, but at least four other semi-friendly governments breathing down our proverbial necks?"

"Never said you needed to read it now," Anthea grinned as she turned to leave his office. "Only that there was information in there you should know, and I recommend you read it at some point, especially the passages I've tagged."

"Perhaps, when I have time," he muttered, pushing the book to one side and pulling the tea closer.

"As you say, sir," Anthea left the dimly lit office with a half-smile on her face.

Sitting back in his perfectly comfortable Eames chair, Mycroft used the tool that had always stood him in the best stead; his _mind_. Thinking the situation through from one end to the other; reversing the possibilities; changing the few variables that were known and adding in speculative potentials, he hammered away at the problem, until even he had to accept that, without additional data, no immediate resolution would be forthcoming.

Letting his eyes slide across to the biscuits on the plate, he sighed. This meant another ten minutes on the treadmill tonight, but his internal frustration demanded a blood sacrifice of some description, and an extended workout was the least problematic.

Sipping his tea, he idly brought Anthea's book into his eyeline. Nibbling one of the digestives, he flicked through several of the pages, pausing as he reached the first of her bookmarks.

_The Chemistry of Genetic Variation: Alpha and Omega._ He turned the page and read, with increasing surprise, a textual blueprint of his own particular mutated physical chemistry; its newly mapped weaknesses and strengths; its profoundly obstinate preferences and tendencies and the way the Alpha behaviour, including sexuality, might be manipulated.

Most of the basics he already knew; had known since attending the mandated special classes from the age of eleven when the cruel claws of puberty wrenched him from the relatively happy innocence of childhood. Not only had he to go to school, but to _special_ classes, a marked humiliation he recalled to this day. Of course, it had been easier for Sherlock when his time came; _all things had been easier for his brother_. Though Mycroft felt himself above the usual pettiness of siblings, he was aware that somewhere deep and unrecognised, that knowledge still rankled.

According to the text before him, a great many things had been discovered since his time in those dreaded classes. As he read down to the following sections, that of the chemical responses between _Alpha _and _Omega_, both initiated and received by the twin mutations, he forgot his tea and the second biscuit, and began to read in earnest.

###

It was dead on the stroke of midday that Greg rang the doorbell of Grace Chandler's apartment in Barge House Street.

Moments later, the door opened, revealing a slightly dishevelled Director of MI5 Archives clad in the same track-pants and Cambridge sweatshirt he'd left her in several hours earlier.

"Get some sleep?" he asked, stepping inside the opened door. "How's the hand?"

"Enough," she smiled, waving the bandaged limb a little as she waited for Sherlock to come in. "It's fine, although I wasn't expecting to hear from you again so soon today," she raised her eyebrows. "Cancelling on me already?"

"Cancelling what?" the younger Holmes was pointedly curious.

"If he's not changed his mind, Greg's taking me out to the flicks, aren't you?" Grace laughed as she preceded them into the kitchen. "Anyone want tea or are we all okay for the time being?"

"Done enough caffeine for the moment, thanks," Lestrade grabbed a high stool by the stone workbench. "We came here for your expert brains rather than your expert tea-making skills."

_ Lestrade had engaged his brother's archivist for a social meeting?_

"Indeed," Sherlock looked sideways at the blonde woman. "You boasted last night that you were the professional and we the sad amateurs, and I think it's about time you made good on that claim," he added, sliding the thin file across the counter towards her fingers. "My brother's people have, thus far, found nothing of value."

Deciding not to keep using the sling, Grace was able to hold the photograph edges between the palms of her two hands, her eyes narrowing while she scanned down the list of tests undertaken so far. Of course, there were a number of other tests that could still be done, some requiring a significant level of sophistication, but she had a feeling that anything picked up along the delivery route they had unearthed last night, would need to be effective but simple.

There was one obvious test that hadn't been done, in that case.

"Come with me," she said, carrying the photo with her into her circular office and library.

Opening a deep drawer on the left side, she pointed to a slim steel case and smiled at Lestrade. "Be a darling and lift that out for me, please, would you?"

Happy to oblige, Greg had the lightweight steel box out and resting on the desktop in seconds. Opening the catches with one hand, Grace assembled a piece of technology that ended with a flat glass screen over a light source, while a very short steel arm unfolded above containing a wide lens that looked down to the surface of the image.

Plugging a USB connection into her computer, she turned the device on, laying the photo face up, on top of the glass screen. With the light switch on beneath a vastly magnified picture of the entire photograph appeared on her computer screen.

"Back in the days when all texts were handwritten, usually by clerics and monks, it became a known way of passing along hidden messages," she mused, sliding the photo back and forwards across the glass while her eyes stayed focused on the computer screen. "Tiny, tiny details, sometimes smaller than the width of a human hair, were painted into the illuminated headings and borders," she added. "When I was at the Law Archives, I saw quite a few instances where prisoners had communicated with their outside people by adding or changing some small details in a family bible, for example," she added. "It strikes me that it's more than possible a similar technique might have been used here."

"But there have already been two micro-image tests," Sherlock objected. "And I'm reasonably sure the equipment at the lab possesses a little more grunt than your domestic facilities."

"Yes, but look at the magnification levels," Grace didn't take her eyes from the screen as she gradually moved the photo, millimetre by millimetre across the lit screen. "The highest they bothered to go was 400 mag, and this little beauty ..." her words trailed off as her fingertips focused the overhead lens a fraction tighter. "Can go a lot higher than that," she grinned, rotating the computer screen to face them. "Et, _voilà!_"

Greg wasn't sure at first what it was he was looking at. The image of the boy in the garden by the toy slide had entirely vanished, even the colour seemed to have been bleached out of the screen.

In its place was a regular series of small boxes, each perfectly square and regular. Row after row of them, all marching across the screen from one side to the other in perfect symmetry.

"What is this?" Greg rested a hand on the back of Grace's chair and leaned close in, his head mere inches from her own as he stared at the screen. "Why are some of those squares lumpy?"

"This is pixel level," she nodded, smiling up at the silver-haired man beside her. "The photo has been magnified out to the individual blocks of colour that make up the image as a whole and those," she pointed to several of the lumpy ones, "are what we call _Textels_," she added. "Textured pixels."

"And why do you have us staring at a screen of small textured boxes?" Sherlock stood behind Lestrade, his eyes assessing everything, both on the screen or off.

"Because of this," Grace pointed the tip of her right index finger at a very small collection of slightly differentiated boxes clustered together. "This, I believe, is the manufacturer's brand," she said, peering down at the actual photograph to check and then back at the vastly magnified section of her screen. "Looks like it has several passengers; shall we attempt to see what they are?"

Without waiting for a response, Grace repositioned the photo so that the section of the toy slide with the manufacturer's label was directly under the centre of the overhead lens. "Cross your fingers," she said, turning a small metal dial a few microns further.

The section was at the highest resolution she could get it with her little box of tricks; a serious optical lab could probably do a bit better, she knew, but not _that_ much. She'd need to have access to a digital resolution to make it any larger.

"And this is the best I can do without digital enhancement," she said, sighing and leaning back. "Do you want me to email copies to anyone in particular?" her finger hovered over the _screen print_ key.

On the screen was a clear indication of miniaturised pages of printed writing, black-on-white, still far too small to read, but easily large enough to be able to see them for what they were: _stowaways_.

The photographs were being used to carry miniaturised print-outs; not a terribly sophisticated method of transferring materials, but effective enough.

"Send one to my phone and I'll make sure everyone who needs to see this gets a copy," Sherlock sounded vaguely approving. "It's clearly micro-text," he said. "But what's that last square?"

"I have no clue," Grace squinted dreadfully. "It looks like a page of writing, but not like any writing I've seen."

"Excellent," Sherlock's slow drawl was full of anticipation. "If our man's using code," a ferocious smile flicked on and off. "Then we have him."

###

It was already well into the afternoon by the time Colin Ward realised someone had borrowed the stapler from his desk. Sighing heavily, he walked over to the black cabinet in the corner of his office which now contained the department's entire storage of things that were goodly, only to discover that the three spares he had stashed away were likewise missing. It looked as if someone was playing a silly joke. Looking around, he saw all the office doors were shut, and if there was one thing you did not do around here without extremely good reason, it was to barge into a closed office.

There was nothing for it; he'd have to go down to the main storage facility in the sub-floor and see if he could wangle a few additional spares if nobody was there to object.

Whistling softly to himself, he took the stairs at a run, nodding to a couple of people he knew along the way. Reaching the basement storage area, he input the four-digit door-code and let himself into a large room populated mostly by large cabinets, storage boxes and enormous wide drawers of different kinds of printable materials.

It was totally silent. He was alone, not an unusual state of affairs; people rarely came down here unless they knew what they wanted. And what he wanted were usually stacked in their little boxes on the second shelf from the top of _that_ cabinet over there.

Pulling open the twin metal doors, the squeak of un-oiled metal hinges an irritating interjection in the silence as he picked out the shape of the boxes of staplers at the back of the shelf. Reaching forward to grab a few, Colin paid no attention to the faint noise behind him until it was entirely too late to do anything about it.

Something hit the side of his temple blindingly hard and he knew nothing else.

###

After her co-investigators vanished as quickly as they had arrived, Sherlock taking particular care to wangle a lift with Lestrade in his car back to Mycroft's office in Whitehall, Grace managed to wade through a surprising amount of reading by mid-afternoon. Making herself a pot of tea, she realised her hand was feeling quite a lot better; still sore if she tried to clench her fist, but the ice-packs she'd been applying seemed to have done the trick and the swelling was well down.

Looking at the clock in the kitchen, she saw it was only three-thirty and she leaned against the stone bench top, thinking what to do with the rest of the day.

She could try and finish the rest of the reading, but her brain had reached saturation-point, and she knew she wasn't going to be able to absorb a great deal more before everything turned to nonsense.

She could take the rest of the afternoon off and either be a slug in front of the TV, or she could put a load of laundry on and maybe go for a walk and get some fresh air. Scanning the skyline of London through the wide windows of her kitchen, Grace saw that the weather had at least made an attempt to cheer up; a pale sun was glinting between the afternoon clouds, and it hadn't rained all day, so the pavements were looking dryer.

Sipping her tea, a sudden desire for the smell of cold air overcame her and she pulled on a thick pair of socks and her trainers, threw a loose padded gilet on top of her sweatshirt and wrapped her old Cambridge scarf around her neck. Shoving a few things in a small leather satchel, she slung the bag's long strap across her body, leaving her hands free.

Feeling a _joie de vivre_ she hadn't felt in a long time, a smile curved her mouth as she headed out towards the river where her feet often went on those occasions her thoughts were undirected. Wandering, semi-aimlessly, she strolled along the river's broad, stone-paved walkway, heading nowhere in particular, and thinking about a tall, silver-haired police inspector with dreamy brown eyes and an innocent smile that could lead a saint astray.

Her wandering feet had brought her around the front of the National Theatre and along beneath Waterloo Bridge. Strolling on around the wide swathe of riverbank, she watched the London Eye, its silver-white steel and glass pods making a never-ending circle, full of tourists and school tours. It was only as she meandered under Westminster Bridge, that she realised Millbank was in sight almost directly across the Thames. Her absent-minded stroll had brought her within spitting distance of work.

Feeling sheepish, Grace shrugged and realised she may as well pop in and see if there was anything waiting for her attention; she needn't stay long, or try and do anything.

Continuing along the riverside walk, right past St Thomas's and Lambeth Palace, Grace hit a right to cross Lambeth Bridge into Millbank. In less than two minutes, she was walking through the revolving glass doors of MI5 and waving at Wilson and Noodles at the security desk.

"I probably won't be long," she called, lifting her bandaged hand. "Just calling in to say 'Hi'."

"Take your time," Wilson waved back. "Ain't nothing going on around here."

Sprinting up the stairs to the fifth-floor, Grace slowed down as she felt her hand start to ache. Walking with a little more care into the Archive Department, she waved at Stratford through his open door, looking for Colin Ward and any mail that might be waiting for her.

There was nothing on her desk and she looked around for her young assistant.

"Anyone seen Colly?" she checked the time; not that long after four, and, though it wasn't too early for someone to have knocked-off for the day, she knew the lad usually stayed until around five by choice.

"Not for a bit now," Stratford ambled out of his den. "He was here earlier, then disappeared." The older man poked his head inside the small Admin office. "His coat's still here, so he hasn't left for the day."

Wondering if anyone else had seen the boy, she knocked on a couple of the closed doors before sticking her head inside. Ruth was proofreading a typed document, her hand wrapped around a steaming cup of tea.

"Seen Colly anywhere?" Grace asked.

"Oh, Hi," Ruth smiled and stretched her back. "He was here after lunch, but I haven't seen him since," the Intelligence Officer looked puzzled. "Why? Is everything alright?"

"It's probably nothing," Grace shook her head. "But it's not like him to have vanished. I'd like to know if he was feeling unwell, or something."

"Well, there's not that many places he could be," Ruth looked thoughtful. "If he's not in the café, and he _wasn't_ when I was in there ten minutes ago, getting my tea, then I have no idea."

"Well, where else did his job take him in the building?" Grace wanted to know. If Colin had merely been distracted and forgotten the time, it wasn't an issue. But if he'd been taken ill somewhere; the winter flu was pulling down even the healthiest among them, then she needed to know and do something about it.

"Other than the café and the tea-room, he only ever went to the mail office, sometimes the Ops rooms and the supply depot down in the basement," Stratford scratched his ear. "But he might be anywhere, really."

"It's not like him to simply vanish," Grace frowned. "I think I might have a bit of a wander around and see if I can track him down. If I catch him chatting up any nice young men, I may have to tease him unmercifully for a couple of hours, or possibly a day or two ... maybe a week," Grace grinned and walked back out the department's main entrance, thinking about where to start.

Logic suggested she either start at the top and work down, or the other way around. Pressing the UP button on the lift, she waited for it to arrive so she could go up and check there was no lingering by her staff in the rarefied atmosphere of the higher levels.

As she waited, a lift heading DOWN arrived, and she stepped inside; it really didn't matter where she began the search.

Travelling all the way down to the sub-basement, Grace fumbled with the door-code pad. She knew all these doors needed a four-digit code, but she also knew that they were different on each floor. _What was the code for this level?_ It took her a good ten seconds of reflective thought to arrive at a number which, she hoped was the correct one. If not, she'd have to go and see the chaps at security and ask them.

Keying in the numbers, Grace smiled in satisfaction as the lock clicked softly and she was able to depress the handle without effort. Stepping inside the large room, a quick glance around showed it to be empty. "Colly?" she asked aloud, just in case.

When there was no response, she was about to leave the storage room when something odd caught her eye, though she wasn't sure what it was. Turning her head slowly, she scanned everything from floor to the high ceiling, trying to catch whatever it was that she saw the first time.

A _shoe_.

A man's brown shoe, lying on its side, half-hidden by the shadow of the large black cabinet beneath which it lay.

Walking over, Grace picked it up, unsure whose it might be. Was it Colin Ward's? It could be; it was certainly long enough to fit him.

"Colly?" Grace looked around again, a strange sense of unease filling her chest. "Colly, are you in here?"

There was no answer, nor could there be.

On impulse, Grace wrenched open the cabinet's metal doors, pulling them wide as her mind tried to accept what she saw within.

Colly Ward, hanging by the neck inside the steel box, his face purpled, his own belt the only thing that kept him from crumpling to the floor.

"_Colin!"_ Grace screamed, lunging in to take the boy's weight off that vulnerable neck. "_Colin!_" holding the young man close to her with her injured hand, she tried to reach around the back of his neck to undo the leather knot, but it had pulled too tight to do anything single-handed.

She was stuck. She couldn't let the boy go, nor could she help him as things stood ... she needed assistance.

Managing to pull out her phone from her pocket, she dialled the main desk number and then the extension 0007. Wilson's voice was possibly the most wonderful thing she could have heard.

"_Wilson_, this is Grace Chandler. I'm in the storage basement and I need an ambulance and someone to help me ... there's been a terrible ... _thing_ ... _please come and help me_ _now_," she gasped. "I can't hang on much longer," she groaned, as the boy's lean weight started to bear down on her. "_Hurry!"_

Gritting her teeth, Grace wedged her heel into the corner of the tall cabinet and simply pushed the solid weight of the boy as high up against the back of the cabinet as she could, anything to take the pressure off his neck. She counted in groups of five ... _one ...two ...three ...four ...five_, she pushed harder as the weight slipped. _One ... two... three ... four ... five..._

_ God ... where were they?_

Tears of exhaustion and pain blurring her closed eyes, it was only the sound of running feet and loud voices, followed by several strong pairs of hands lifting the weight from her in order that she could fall back and _breathe_, everything shaking as her legs refused to hold her own weight and she fell, rubber-kneed to the grey, vinyl floor, her breathing harsh in her ears.

"Is he alive?" she struggled with the words. "Is he breathing?"

Managing to lift her head, she watched as Wilson Burberry performed CPR on Colin Ward's slender frame, the older man's hands sure and confident as he pressed and compressed the boy's chest.

"There's a pulse," Wilson paused as the Paramedics came flying into the room with a wheeled stretcher, their rubber-soled boots squeaking on the shiny floor. They gestured for him to move back. "But it's very weak," he added, watching the two professionals fall into a smooth and well-rehearsed routine of saving a life. "What's up with your hand?"

Barely able to move, Grace let her eyes fall down to the back of her right hand. Though there was absolutely no pain, the entire bandage was soaked with bright red blood.

"I cut my hand last night ..." she moved to her knees to try and stand, only to realise that everything was going grey around the edges ... she was babbling incoherently ... everything was spinning ... there was a muffled voice saying her name ...

As the paramedics fixed an oxygen-mask to their patient and wheeled him from the room, Grace slumped bonelessly to the ground.

###

There was the faintest smell of antiseptic around her when she opened her eyes.

Grace saw she was lying on her side beneath a light blanket as her eyes flicked around, assessing and absorbing her surrounds.

A small room; plain white walls, a blind-covered window; several cabinets on the wall above a small sink with big steel taps. The smell of pine disinfectant.

She closed her eyes again and drew a deep breath. Some kind of medical room, obviously, but not a hospital. What would she be doing in a hospital? What was she even doing in a medical room?

The realisation that she had fainted clean away, dawned, and she squeezed her eyes tight in embarrassment. Why on earth had she fainted? She hadn't fainted since she was twelve and about to go into her first major heat.

As the recent events sharpened once more in her mind, Grace felt her heart-rate speed; an icy panic gripped her.

_Colin?_

Pushing herself up for the bed, she realised her left hand was throbbing horrendously. Lifting it out from under the cover, she saw a clean white bandage had replaced the blood-soaked one, and she was grateful for small mercies.

There were voices outside the door and she groaned. _Oh god, there was no way she could escape from any of this with the slightest shred of credibility_.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled the blanket away and sat up, her legs dangling off the side of the bed. Feeling a slight wash of nausea make her stomach heave, Grace took another deep breath and slid down until her feet hit the floor.

Her gilet and bag was on a nearby chair. She dragged them on, her left hand complaining loudly at the additional movement. Standing, she walked to the door and inhaled hard yet again to try and clear her head. Grace turned the handle and opened the door towards her.

At the sound and movement of the door, all parties to the conversation in the passageway beyond ceased speaking and turned, as one, to examine her face.

Greg Lestrade was the first to move, stepping forward and sliding an arm around her back, helping her to stand. "You should go back and lie down again," he said. "We're still debating about getting you checked out at hospital before I have to talk to you about what ... happened ... downstairs."

"I'm sorry I've caused a fuss," Grace's smile was wobbly. "But I'm perfectly okay; no idea why I fainted. It's not something I do, as a rule, and definitely no need for a hospital," she stood a little straighter. "How's ... Colin?"

The thunderous silence told her what she couldn't bear to ask.

"_Oh god_," her voice caught, and she pressed her unbandaged hand tight across her mouth to stem the grief. She had known the boy less than a week, but he had been such a lovely soul. "What happened?"

"He never regained consciousness," Mycroft was standing beside Gerald Palmer, the both of them looking somewhat uncertain, the elder Holmes clutching the handle of his umbrella so hard his knuckles were ivory.

"He wouldn't have done this," Grace felt her defences start to weaken again, as the knowledge rolled over her. "It wasn't in him to ..."

"It was murder," Sherlock stepped forward, "and we all know it," he added. "Now it really would be a good idea for you to go and lie down again; your hands have started to tremble quite significantly, usually a sign of imminent emotional and physical ..."

"Oh, _do shut up_, Sherlock," Mycroft snapped the words as he stepped forward and re-opened the door into the small medical room. "Please," he spoke to Lestrade without meeting the older man's eyes. "Have her lie down."

"Come on, Grace," Greg found his voice was nearly inaudible. "Come and lie down for a bit until you're more yourself. I'll be here," he added. "I won't leave you alone."

"I'll have someone administer a sedative," Mycroft straightened his back, tipping his head back and looking down his nose in his usual manner. But there was no directive in his words, rather a soft regret that had Sherlock watching his sibling with ill-concealed curiosity.

Shepherding the blonde woman inside the small room, Greg found his arms were sliding naturally around her torso as she stood there, shaking.

"It's all right, babe," he crooned gently. "There's nothing anyone could have done."

"If I have been here all day instead of taking time off for this blasted hand ... I might have been able to ... I could have ..." Grace let her head fall forward until it rested against his chest.

"Nah, don't think anyone could have," Lestrade held her close to his body, allowing the feeling of warmth to grow between them. "You did everything you were able to do and none of it's your fault, okay?" he added. "I don't want you thinking that there's any blame here other than on the killer."

"Oh god, he was only a kid," Grace let the tears slide down her face unchecked, too shocked to care.

"And we'll get whoever did this, I promise you," Greg wrapped his long arms around her and simply held her against him as the ravages of her emotional distress took their toll.

A quiet knock at the door and a small man with a doctor's bag entered the cramped space. "I believe you might benefit from something to make you relax a little and possibly even sleep, hmm?" the stranger's words floated around her head, but they held no comfort, no real meaning for her.

He undid his black case, locating a small plastic vial of white tablets, he checked the quantity; there were six.

"Take two of these now and go directly home," he advised, turning to look at Lestrade. "Can someone escort her?"

"I'll make sure she gets there myself," Greg nodded, filling a glass with water from the tap. "Here," he said, giving the glass to her. "Take the pills and then let me take you home; I've got the car outside."

"There's another four tablets in here," the doctor dropped the tiny bottle into Lestrade's hand. "If she has trouble sleeping for the next couple of nights, one or two will help her relax, and the lady will soon be feeling a lot better."

Grace doubted she'd ever feel better.

"Come on, let's get you to home and to bed," Greg's arm was tight around her shoulders as he guided her out of the room and down the corridor.

###

Mycroft watched them go, watched as Grace accepted the inspector as her support and her saviour, and all he could do was stand there, unable to say a word to ease her grief, or lift a finger to reduce her distress. He had abdicated that privilege on a summer's evening nearly two years before, and had no right now to step in and dare to assume he might be able to alleviate her pain. He had made a decision and he needed to stick to it or chaos would ensue and the heavens would fall.

Distantly, he noted his hand was paining him again and he looked down to see a scalpel-slice across the palm where the handle of his umbrella had cracked in his grip.

No, he had no right at all.

He closed his eyes as she disappeared into the lift.


	6. Chapter 6 The Curtain Falls

**The Curtain Falls**

_Sleep of the Dead – The Realisation of Mycroft – Getting Comfortable – I Want You to Watch – Something's Wrong – The Boring Straw – An Appointment with Murder – A Matter of Some Urgency – Volunteers? – Coffee and Death – A Little Help – Knifepoint – A Decision._

#

#

Grace was already feeling drowsy by the time Greg helped her up the stairs to her apartment. She vaguely registered he seemed to be making a habit of this. Too numb to utter the thought, she made no objection when he took her keys and opened her front door, easing her inside and closing the door behind them both. There were no words when she plodded through to her bedroom and, pushing open the door, dropping her bag and outer gear on the floor, uncaring where it fell.

Lestrade looked around the large room, trying to fathom how the blinds worked, both the normal ones in the big windows, as well as the extraordinary one that covered what seemed to be a glass ceiling. It didn't take him long, a fact he took some comfort in. He was, after all, a senior police officer and a detective.

By the time he turned back to her, Grace had rolled onto her side on top of the covers and curled into herself, silent and clearly desperately upset.

"Do you want me to stay?" It was the only question that came to him; none of the others, the police-type questions, were even relevant. Not right now.

"Yes," her voice was almost inaudible, but the single syllable was clear enough.

He stepped around the bed, sitting on the end as he lifted her feet to pull off first one trainer and then the other.

"How about you get under the covers, eh?" he frowned as he looked into her face which was far too pale, even for someone with her light colouring. "How are you feeling?" he asked, gently. "Would a cup of tea help?"

"No tea," Grace closed her eyes tight. "I think I'm going to be sick ..."

"Want a hand to the ..." Greg was about to offer to help her to the loo, when she jack-knifed up off the bed and flew out the door towards the toilet, a hand clamped across her mouth. Judging by the heart-wrenching sounds, she just made it in time.

Heading to the kitchen where, only that morning he had cooked them both breakfast in a much happier frame of mind, Lestrade filled the kettle and dug out the tea. Something hot with a touch of sweetness in it would do her no harm. He opened cupboards looking for honey.

"Is that tea?" Grace sounded exhausted as she leaned against the corner of the kitchen units sounding both washed-out and half-asleep.

Looking up, Greg realised she still looked grim, but perhaps not quite so green as before. "Yes," he nodded. "You crawl into bed and I'll bring it through in a minute."

Without a word, she vanished, her socked feet making no sound on the polished wooden boards.

By the time he found the honey, made the tea and brought two mugs of it into her darkened bedroom, Grace was under the covers, her face shadowed.

"Here you go," he said, putting a mug down within easy reach as he sat on the side of the bed by her feet. "Do you want to talk about it now, or wait until you feel better?"

She was so still and quiet, Greg wondered if she'd fallen asleep.

"Nobody knew where he was," she whispered. "I wanted to know if he had any mail for me and went looking for him. I was going to tease him about going off to flirt with some nice young man," she added, her voice husking into silence as her eyes filled with tears.

Deciding to let her speak, Lestrade remained mute. It might be a good idea for her to get it out now rather than later.

"I wasn't even going to start looking downstairs at first," Grace wiped her eyes on the pillow. "But the down-lift arrived while I was there so I took it. I went into the storage room and I thought the place was empty, but then I saw his shoe underneath the cabinet."

There was such a long pause that Greg wondered if she had decided not to say any more.

"I opened the doors and saw him inside ... it was awful," she whispered again. "_Awful_."

Lestrade picked up the mug of tea and held it out for her. "Sip this," he said. "It will make you feel a bit better."

Like a child, she pushed herself up on one elbow, taking the mug in her good hand. Shuddering as the warm liquid flowed down through her, Grace managed several swallows before she handed it over.

Collapsing back down into the bed, she rested her bandaged hand over her eyes. "I couldn't hold him up and undo the ... belt, so I phoned the security men at reception and got them to come down ..." Grace paused again. "I remember the ambulance people coming in and I remember lots of voices and noise and then everything just went grey and faded out," she shrugged under the covers. "That's everything I know, sorry."

"It's more than enough for now," Greg sipped his own tea, feeling the heat relax some of the inner tension he hadn't even realised he was feeling. "You should sleep," he added. "You have to be feeling shattered."

"A bit," Grace was mumbling now, her words muffled by the softness of the duvet. "Don't leave."

"Wasn't going to," Greg replaced his mug on the bedside table and kicked off his shoes as he slipped his jacked down his arms. "Scootch over,"

Looking blearily up at him, Grace saw that he was about to climb into bed, completely clothed. She felt an hysterical urge to laugh. He was the second man who'd crawled into bed beside her, fully dressed. What was it about her, or the people she knew that made this seem like a good idea?

But she desperately wanted his company ... any company, really, so she kept silent and scootched.

Pulling the duvet back over them both, Greg reached across and carefully got close. He had no real understanding what the hell he was trying to achieve, but whatever he was doing seemed to be acceptable.

She was freezing cold.

"_Christ_, woman," he muttered. "You're a block of ice."

"Don't feel well," she mumbled, the sensation of his warm arm suddenly around her shoulders a deliciously welcome counterpoint to her increasing chilliness. Grace could feel the drug in her system pulling her down into sleep and all she knew was that she couldn't be alone right now.

"Just don't leave me for a while, please ..." she whispered again, her eyes closing beneath the influence of the medication.

Turning his head, Greg could tell immediately that she'd dropped off; the unusual slackness in her face a mark of unnatural somnolence. He sighed, folding his unencumbered arm behind his neck and staring up at the dark-blue shadowed ceiling. Grace Chandler was not going to find the next few days easy.

###

"Whoever did this is a fool," Sherlock was in Gerald Palmer's office, seated, for once, beside his brother with no overt sign of animosity. "While there was still a question as to the identity of the traitor, they should have laid low. Clearly we are not dealing with a criminal mastermind."

"Unless there is an element of desperation at work here," Mycroft rested the side of an index finger against his mouth in thought, his eyes momentarily distant. "If the perpetrator has no control over his clients' demands, it's entirely possibly they could be forcing his hand."

"You're sure it is a _man_ doing this, then?" Palmer looked from one Holmes to the next.

Barely managing to avoid rolling his eyes in despair, Sherlock linked his fingers and looked pityingly across the desk.

"Of the two women in the Archive Department, which one would you say has the physical body-strength to not only overpower a much-taller young man, but to drag him into a cupboard and hold him up high enough in order to complete the act of murder?" he asked tightly. "Your Intelligence Officer, Ruth Lannagan, perhaps?" he asked sarcastically. "All five-feet two inches of her? And exactly how tall was Mr Ward? _Hmm?_ Or perhaps it was Magda Borowski, your DM Specialist? A woman who has become something of an expert in fast-response keyboard games in an effort to hide the fact of her rheumatoid arthritis?" he added, waving a hand in the air. "Perhaps she magically lifted him into that cabinet by her enormous power of will?!" he stood, irritated. "Of _course_ the murderer is a man. The two most likely suspects therefore, being Meath and Thomas."

"Now, now, Sherlock," Mycroft blinked slowly. "No need for melodrama."

Sherlock leaped to his feet, walking to stare out of one of the massive windows overlooking the Thames. "But why now?" he asked of himself. "Why kill Ward now? What has changed that necessitated the boy's death?"

"There was the debacle at Milton's last night, of course," Mycroft adjusted one of his cufflinks. "If our man were there, he might have felt impossibly pressured and acted out of panic. Perhaps Colin Ward found out something that demanded his permanent silencing?" He frowned. That Grace Chandler had been the one to find the victim and with whom, by all accounts, she had formed an immediate friendship, added to the troubling situation.

All four remaining members of the Archives team were now being treated as suspect, regardless of what Sherlock might argue about the women being unable to handle the physical elements of the murder. Each one of the four had evidenced extreme shock, both together as a group, as well as in their individual interviews. Not one of them had given away the slightest clue of involvement in the terrible death, and each one had a concrete alibi in that at least one other member of the team was with them at the time of the boy's death.

_And yet at least one of them was lying._

Mycroft closed his eyes in an effort to keep his focus on the problem at hand while simultaneously clearing his thoughts of ... other matters. On top of this increasingly disturbing business, there was the problem he had finally been forced to admit he was having with the new Director of MI5 Archives.

He had _almost_ convinced himself that the sensation Grace Chandler aroused in his chest every time she was close at hand was merely an inconvenient coincidence, regardless of every dictum he himself acknowledged about the probability of coincidences. He had _almost_ reached the point of belief that the slight breathlessness he experienced whenever those clear grey eyes looked into his was nothing more than collegial interest, and his constant concern over her wellbeing these last few days _nothing more_ than the unsettling effect of old memories.

Until, of course, he had read that blasted American medical text which had unreasonably removed his every option for self-delusion and complacency. Not even _he_ could rationally argue against human biochemistry, no matter how much he might desire to do so. Nor, apparently, was there anything biologically or chemically that might be done about his current predicament, unless either he or she somehow managed to avoid coming within a mile of one another for the next, oh, ten or eleven years, to be on the safe side. There were some things about the physical, emotional and intellectual connection between an Alpha and an Omega that defied not only logic but common politeness.

_Though they were not formally connected or allianced in any personal way, yet his body and his mind were telling him Grace Chandler was his intended ...mate._

The American text had been quite clinically revealing, explicit even, about the entire encounter. While there was a natural biological and chemical affinity between the two mutated offshoots of _Homo sapiens_, it was usually only an initial and quite temporary thing, something designed to secure only the sexual interest of the one for the other in the services of procreation and the continuation of the _genera_. Mother Nature was a cunning and somewhat ruthless panderer, in this regard.

In a _very_ few cases, the initial chemical attraction, usually facilitated by an enhanced sensory input of the pair in question, became somehow so overwhelmingly implanted, that a physiological and occasionally _psychological_ bond was created, often so rapidly that the involved parties remained blissfully unaware the union had occurred until they were required to exist separately. If there was enough of both time and distance, the bond would eventually dissipate and wither. If however, the union was revitalised by renewed or ongoing contact between the pair, then it became further entrenched, inflicting genuine discomfort and even physical pain on one or both parties if separation was enforced. Occasionally, such a union affected one of the pair more than the other.

Mycroft realised that an event of this nature had happened between he and Grace in Cambridge, almost two years prior; some shared event or incident that had forged an unseen and latent bond. Something his unconscious nature had chosen to interpret – more or less – as the beginnings of a mating dance, though he could not say with any certainty what it might have been. According to the several authors of the text, this form of involuntary determination, though on the uncommon side, was not without precedent. References were made to a number of historical couples who had fallen prey to the same precondition. Victoria and Albert; Salim and Anarkali; Napoleon and Josephine. Even the present day Elizabeth Windsor and Philip Mountbatten were mooted to have experienced a similar concord. Not that becoming an unwilling subject of his own biological imperatives made the situation any less problematic, no matter how vaunted the company might be.

Though his initial decision to break off any potential relationship with Grace had apparently been successful, at least superficially, the renewed contact with her had re-inflamed a determination his body had already made. He was, for want of a better description, _infected_ with her. And according to the American writers of the text Anthea had harangued him into reading; the only way out of this was for the two affected individuals to have absolutely no contact whatsoever.

_For at least ten years_.

Given that contact had been renewed between them, and relatively close-quartered contact at that, his subconscious had apparently arrived at the unilateral conclusion that Grace was his chosen partner, the regeneration of their acquaintanceship sufficient to convince his entire biology that she was to be his _mate_.

He pressed a finger to the side of him temple where an incipient headache was making itself known.

_Omega ..._

He could attempt to disregard or even deny the repercussions of this biological hijack, at least intellectually. But his physiology would not be easy to convince.

According to the Americans, he was the intended of one Grace Chandler, and there was very little he could do to persuade his evolutionary systems otherwise. There were, of course, drug interventions, but they were still highly experimental, unproven and possessed both an irregular success rate and unsavoury side-effects. Thus his options were relatively few and hideously clear.

He could suffer in silence and hope the ... _connection_ dissolved of its own volition sooner rather than later. He could risk the still-undocumented consequences of experimental chemical intervention. He could take certain steps to ensure that he and the attractive – the chest-crushingly desirable – Director of MI5 Archives, _never again met again in the same enclosed space_. Equally, he could resign his post in favour of herding goats in the Andorran foothills for the rest of his natural.

_Or_ ... he could take the bull by the horns and follow the path he had refused to pursue two years before. But Mycroft knew it was not in his nature to be forced into anything against his will, and the idea of taking any step that was not fully of his own election, was anathema. Whatever his biology might be saying, his intellect would always reign supreme, whether it meant self-exile in Andorra or not.

Plus, of course, there was the fact that this was not only his decision alone; regardless of his ... feelings ... on the matter, it did indeed take two to tango, especially in this particular circumstance. It mattered not if he were to pine away to a wraith, if the focus of all his biological yearnings was not of the same mind, and, by the looks of things, Grace Chandler, though inexplicably unpartnered for the last two years, was about to make up for lost time with the handsome and socially-resourceful inspector from New Scotland Yard.

At the memory of Lestrade's hand in the small of her back at the hospital, Mycroft felt his throat tighten.

And on top of everything else, his intent to protect Grace from herself after their Cambridge _affaire_, brief though it was, had seemed to have backfired in a most glorious fashion now that she had become so personally and dangerously embroiled in the current investigation, the _exact_ reason he had chosen to snuff out their relationship before it had gone too far in the first place. Clearly, however, their relationship had progressed far more rapidly than he had imagined. He was, as the adage went, up the creek without a paddle.

Mycroft sighed internally. Through the best of intentions, his private life had become a morass of questions, uncertainties and brain-clogging emotion. The situation could not be permitted to continue.

Something had to be done.

But first, to locate the trouble-maker within MI5 and bring them to justice. Once that problem had been laid to rest, he might then be able to divert a small portion of his thoughts to the resolution of his own predicament.

He returned his focus to the matter at hand.

"There is also the recent upgrading of both hardware and software within the department to consider," he mused, almost to himself. "It may well be that somehow, the unfortunate Mr Ward became privy to information that ultimately proved fatal," Mycroft looked across at Palmer. "A log is kept of all software uploaded to all computers, both personal and mainframe terminals?"

"Of course," the Head of MI5 nodded. "Nothing is uploaded to anything linked to any internal system, whether via direct connection or Wi-Fi that is not automatically logged and recorded. Why?" Gerald Palmer hadn't been given his current job because he was a pretty face.

"Because something has obviously changed in the last twenty-four hours," Sherlock whirled himself away from the view over Southbank to face the man. "Whoever is involved in this has clearly had their hand forced, in some way, by the investigation, and desperate action has resulted," he paused, meeting his brother's gaze. "I need to know what has been done on every one of the remaining four computers," he said. "Every particle of upload and download from the internet; every phone call, every email, every keystroke ... I need to know _everything_ that has moved or changed on each one of these four independent systems since yesterday."

"That will mean going through the equivalent of four day's work, second-by-second," Palmer frowned. "How will you be able to make any progress in time? Time is, after all, of the greatest importance now."

"Each of the remaining Archive staff are suspended pending the investigation?" Sherlock stared at him.

"Of course, it's standard operating policy," Palmer nodded. "And we are maintaining surveillance of all four of them until further notice."

"In which case," Sherlock's words were almost to himself, "I will need help."

###

She was still out for the count when he jerked awake to the muted buzz of his mobile inside his jacket pocket. Problem was, his jacket was slung over the back of a chair in Grace Chandler's bedroom and he was about fifteen feet away, in her bed.

_He had been asleep in Grace Chandler's bed._

In bed beside a gorgeous woman, who, even in her current distressed and unkempt state would knock any magazine cover-model into a cocked hat.

Greg Lestrade blinked heavily several times, debating whether to answer the phone or let it go to voicemail. The decision was removed from him when the buzzing fell silent.

He knew he needed to move from this incredibly warm and restful place, to leave the side of his sleeping companion and go and be what the Met was paying him to be, and he would.

In a little while.

Obviously his own lack of sleep had helped him succumb to drowsiness; he would never have dozed off if he hadn't been so unbelievably comfy.

Lestrade turned his head slightly to observe his temporary bed mate.

She was dazzling. Even in this rumpled, exhausted state, each curve of her sculpted face, each line of her eyelids and her mouth ...

Despite himself, Greg felt parts of his body beginning to wake up faster than others and he grimaced. This was not what she had wanted him to stay for ... _not yet, anyway_, his subconscious added silently. Right now, Grace Chandler needed a friend and Greg was determined that, no matter what, he could be that for her. He stretched his legs and studiously ignored anything other than the sound of her breathing.

…And the way the corners of her mouth curved slightly upwards, even in the deepest sleep; the way her light golden eyelashes lay across the subtle rise of each cheek, two elegant fans that quivered as she breathed. Even the quality of her skin fascinated him; its fine sheen like matt silk stretched over her bones.

"If you're going to stare, at least let me wash my face and comb my hair," Grace mumbled without opening her eyes, her lips curving a little.

"I didn't think you'd be waking up just yet," Greg acknowledged sheepishly. "I don't get the opportunity to look at many gorgeous women this close up any more," he sighed. "Didn't mean to intrude." He lay back against his pillow and stared instead at the shadows on the dark-blue ceiling.

"You're not intruding, you great silly," Grace rolled over onto her side, her bandaged left hand sliding unselfconsciously across his chest as she rested against him. "I'm not used to having a wonderfully kind policeman sleep in my bed either," she muttered. "It makes me feel very comfortable."

_Comfortable_. Yes, it was the right word.

"How are you feeling now?" Greg tipped his head sideways enough to see the expression on her face. "Bit better?"

"Not so icky as before," Grace closed her eyes tight as the realisation of the situation washed over her again. "But I think it's going to be a while before things are back to better."

"Give it a couple of days," he said, knowingly. "You'll be amazed what a couple of night's kip can do."

"You will need me to make a formal statement," she said.

"Soon as you feel up to it," Greg inhaled slowly. "Not that there's much you can say we didn't already know."

"Will you catch whoever did this terrible thing?" Grace rested the side of her face against the cotton of his shirt and felt the soft thud of a heartbeat through the warmth of skin and fabric.

"Yes," Lestrade was very much aware this situation was not one he would ever be able to leave unresolved. No matter how long it took. "We will."

"That's something, at least," she rolled over onto her back and thought for a bit. "And I am going to continue helping you and Sherlock both," she added.

"Not so sure that's such a great idea now," Greg spoke slowly, thoughtfully. "You've already been hurt in more ways than one, and there's no guarantee this is as bad as it's going to get," he paused, shifting until he was looking down into her face. "I think I'm going to tell you it's too dangerous to stay involved."

"You think?" she smiled.

"Yes," he grinned and ducked his head. "I _think_ I will tell you that."

"But you need me," Grace rolled onto her side again, the better to see the expression in his face. "There are things neither you nor Sherlock know, but I do," she said, seriously. "And besides, I'm already involved and if anyone knows about the risks, then it's going to be me, isn't it?" she looked sad, acknowledging recent events. "There's no way you're going to be able to stop me."

"I could have you arrested," he stared down into eyes that were wide and clear in the deep water-darkness of the shaded bedroom. "I could, you know."

"You aren't going to have me arrested."

"You seem quite sure about that," he said, assessing her face. Such a lovely face.

"I think you need me more than you imagine," Grace offered, watching every shift of his gaze, every tilt of his head. In the dim light, everything was indistinct and uncertain.

"I think I don't want you hurt anymore," he murmured, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss onto her mouth.

As there was no immediate objection, he did it again.

"How long have you wanted to do that?" Grace felt a strange sense of disconnection from reality.

"Since last night," Greg grinned. "It was that fancy snake transfer that did it."

"I'm really not that kind of a girl, you know," she tried to make light of what had just happened.

"I know," Lestrade rolled away to stare back up at the ceiling. He would not push anything now. "I have to go soon. Will you be alright by yourself, or do you want me to get someone to come and stay with you for the night?"

Grace sighed. How did she really feel? Exhausted? In need of a more refreshing sleep than just a couple of hours? Time to get her head straight? All of the above, and more. Did she need anyone to be with her?

"I'll be fine," she said, patting the middle of his chest carefully with her hand. "I'm sorry to have been such a problem for you already. Thank you for everything you've done and please don't worry about me another second ..." she pulled the duvet away from her legs and swung her feet down to the floor, facing away from the door.

Everything went a little blurry as the room spun.

"You absolutely positive you'll be okay?" Greg was already on his feet, reaching for his jacket, looking for his shoes. He pulled one of his Met business cards from an inner pocket. "If you need anything," he said, dropping the white rectangle on the bedside table. "Anything at _all_, then ring me directly on this number, okay?"

"Okay," she nodded. "When do you want me to come and make that statement?" she asked, her back still towards him.

He checked his watch. It was nearly nine, later than he had expected. Too late for her to do anything much tonight.

"Mycroft has his people watching everyone in your team," he said. "He's also put some of his CCTV cameras on this place for you," he added. "Something about wanting to make sure you had no more unpleasant surprises."

Grace closed her eyes and allowed her head to droop.

"Mycroft Holmes might be a royal pain in the arse, but he's a good man at heart," Lestrade shrugged into his jacket, mistaking her body-language for irritation.

"I know," the words were a sigh.

"So ... right then," now that he'd decided to go and get on with the job he was supposed to be doing, he wanted to be off. "If you're sure you're going to be alright? I'll call you tomorrow morning and if you feel like it, you can come down to the Yard then? I'll have them send a car for you."

She stood then, turning and smiling, a little wanly. "I'll be fine," she nodded. "I'll be perfectly okay by myself tonight, and I'll definitely be right to come and give my statement tomorrow morning," Grace nodded again.

"Good ... that's good," Greg felt oddly unsettled; like he'd forgotten something important and would regret it when he realised what it was. "Tomorrow, then," he said, watching her as she walked up to him and rested her good hand briefly on his arm, just above the elbow.

"Tomorrow," she agreed, stepping past him and walking out of the bedroom.

###

John folded his arms across his chest and looked unconvinced. On receiving a typical Sherlock call for help, he had, as he always would, gone running.

_Need you urgently at MI5 Millbank. Time-critical. SH_

But now he was here, John wasn't quite so sure he was going to be of much use.

"And this is why you and Greg Lestrade have been running around London the last couple of nights?" he asked, waiting to be brought completely into the story. "The pubs, the clubs?"

"Of course it is," Sherlock's scowl was fleeting but epic. "None of them were the kind of places I'd select were I seeking entertainment," he announced. "You cannot possibly imagine we were doing it for _enjoyment_."

"And now it's all hit the fan and you need me to help you do what, exactly?" the blonde man knew the younger Holmes far too well. Obviously, there was a big ask coming along, any …second …now ...

"I need a safe pair of eyes to trawl through approximately eight hours of unexpurgated Secret Service work-day," Sherlock said, meeting the lighter blue eyes of his friend and colleague.

"You want me to go through eight hours of someone's work ... why?"

"I want you to watch, John," Sherlock lifted his eyebrows. "Just watch."

###

Grace found herself back in the kitchen, going through the motions of making tea, though her thoughts were far, far away from any such domestic activity.

He had kissed her.

Not demandingly, or with the slightest hinted attempt at any form of suasion. He had simply felt a desire to touch her, perhaps to show her there was still gentle contact to be had in this awful world, and so he had.

What was she supposed to feel? Greg Lestrade was a genuinely lovely man; a kind, morally decent human being, with a dry sense of humour and eyes that held the most wicked promises of transgression. Grace already knew she liked him, probably liked him quite a bit, but how was she supposed to feel now he had actually kissed her?

Surprised? Excited? Shocked?

The kettle boiled and she poured water over the dry tea leaves.

_Surprised and pleased_, probably, she nodded to herself as she stirred the tea in the pot. If she were going to be kissed unexpectedly by a nice man, especially one who had just done her the great kindness of keeping her warm in bed, then being surprised and pleased would be the right things to feel.

Grace frowned.

Because she had felt nothing. Nothing at all. Not even a quickened heartbeat.

Perhaps it was the drug in her system that made it hard for her to feel anything but tired, or perhaps she was still in shock after the ... after what had happened earlier. But if she could feel the shock and horror of the earlier event, then she must surely be able to have felt _something_. It didn't seem right to be kissed by a perfectly acceptable man and then feel absolutely nothing whatsoever.

Something was off with her perception, although Grace knew her head was far too scrambled right now to make sense of anything more complicated than brewing tea.

She poured herself a mug of the golden liquid and looked out through her kitchen windows across the dark of London, wondering what part of her had stopped working.

###

It was long after midnight and the small, dimly-lit room was already scented with several rounds of coffee and that peculiar burning ozone odour of over-warmed technology; as if a television has been left on for too long.

There were eight lit screens, two each to a desk; one screen showing a continuous real-time feed of activity and the other, the view from a surveillance camera shooting from behind and over the shoulder of the four individuals whose work-feed was being checked. Shane Meath, Ruth Lannagan, Magda Borowski and Stratford Thomas. Each set of screens was being scrupulously studied, almost frame-by-frame, by a critical pair of eyes for whatever information or secrets there might be to discover.

John was the first to push away from his particular screens, leaning back in his chair as the joints in his spine creaked. He rubbed both eyes and stretched his arms until he felt things pop.

"God; how long have we been at this?" he groaned, rolling his neck and paying particular attention to an increasing stiffness in his left shoulder. He had been given the recorded work input of the Archivist, Stratford Thomas. So far, the only thing worth noting was that the man's work seemed to be improbably and incredibly _dull_.

"Not even a quarter-way through the feed yet, John," Sherlock's steady voice came from over to the left, where the younger Holmes was staring, almost unblinkingly, at two screens of his own. Shane Meath was the star of his particular production.

"Soldier on, Doctor," Mycroft sat away over in the room's far corner, his eyes focused on the slightly speeded-up replay of both the work-feed of Magda Borowski as well as the associated surveillance footage. Thus far the woman had done absolutely nothing beyond those things classified as part of her normal work-routine, although Mycroft noted his brother's accurate observation of the woman's medical condition as she had several times now paused in her duties to undertake a repetitive series of exercises and calisthenics clearly designed to alleviate stiffness in the hands and wrists.

"I feel your pain, Doctor Watson," Gerald Palmer, the room's final occupant was seated in the last quadrant of the room, he too rubbed his eyes. "It's been a fair few years since I've had to do this sort of thing, but the need to keep this information out of general circulation is vital."

"Consider this an opportunity to regain the common touch," Sherlock's wry mutter came from the far side of the room.

"I had completely forgotten how tedious an Intelligence officer's job was at these lower levels," Palmer blinked several times before renewing his scrutiny of Ruth Lannagan's daily activities. The woman appeared to undertake most of her communications, even the internal ones, by email. Faster that way, he realised, opening up Lannagan's entire email log for the day, barely stifling a groan. There were dozens of the damnable things. Had it not been for the combination of the lack of time and the need for absolute discretion, he'd have hauled in a dozen subordinates to do this job, and have them lose sleep instead. Rank ought to have _some_ privilege, after all.

Taking a deep breath, John leaned back in to his task, watching with bare patience as Stratford Thomas subjected a digitised document to multiple layers of scanning, each scan taking ten minutes or more. He sighed, closing his eyes briefly as the surveillance footage moved on.

Upon refocusing his attention, he saw that his subject had vanished from both screens. The man had left the computer scans running, but had physically left his room. Checking the time-stamp, he saw it was around eleven on the morning of Colin Ward's murder.

"Do we have access to multiple camera feeds internal to the building?" John looked over his shoulder at Palmer. "My subject's just left his office and I have no way of knowing where he went."

"We maintain internal cameras only in sensitive areas, Doctor," Gerald Palmer's eyes didn't leave his own screens. "But those areas also require a swipe-card to gain access and all traffic is recorded in a separate log. None of these four went anywhere near a sensitive area yesterday. Sorry not to be of more help, old man."

John's mouth fixed in a flat line. There had been senior officers in the RAMC who'd called people _old man_. Maintaining an outward silence, he turned his head to look in Sherlock's direction, just catching the edge of a smile on his friend's face. Shaking his head a little at the British upper classes, John returned to the task in hand, now entirely sure he had pulled the boring straw.

He looked at his watch again. Three hours down. _Only another five to go_.

He sighed.

###

Though she still felt as if a great weight was resting on her chest, Grace had to admit those little pills the doctor had given her definitely helped with a full night's sleep. She'd taken a single tablet with her late-night tea and had slept, unmoving and unaware, for ten glorious hours. The knowledge of Colin's death sat heavily within her, but from a physical perspective, Grace realised she was feeling a lot better. So much better, in fact, that she decided to go and visit her friendly neighbourhood Detective Inspector to finalise the formalities of this horrible situation.

Rough-drying her hair, Grace was munching half-heartedly on a slice of toast when her mobile rang.

It was Shane Meath.

"Sorry to bother you at home, Boss," he sounded unspeakably depressed. "But none of us have any real idea of what's going on and nobody is willing to even talk about what happened yesterday," he added. "Is there any chance we could maybe meet up this morning somewhere for coffee of something? We're all feeling pretty bad about what happened, guilty, even."

Putting her own distress aside for a moment, Grace realised her people would be in an even worse state; after all, they had all known Colly for a great deal longer than she. It was to be expected that they would all be terribly upset.

"Where are you?" she asked. "Are you all together?"

"Actually, we are," Meath confirmed. "We're all having coffee at _Le Pain_ in Covent Garden," he said. "It's a midway point for all of us, and we sometimes get together here when we all need to discuss something. We wanted to talk about what's going to happen next ... after Colin ... Could you, maybe, come and meet us?"

Checking the wall clock, Grace realised that if she took another hour or so before she turned up at Scotland Yard, no great harm would be done.

"I can do that," she half-smiled down the phone. "I realise it's got to be awful for everyone. Give me twenty minutes and I'll meet you there," she said, ending the call.

Dialling the number on the card Greg had left for her, she got his voice-mail and was invited to leave a message.

"Hello, Inspector," she shook her head at her own formality. "I'll be coming in later this morning to give my witness statement," she said. "Though I'm going to meet up with my team from the archives at _Le Pain_ in Covent Garden for a bit of a weep," she added. "I'll grab a cab to see you after I've spoken with them; maybe they want to talk about Colin's funeral or something," she sighed. "Call you later."

Her hand was also feeling a lot better she realised, as she dressed. While it was still sore and a bit on the stiff side, the throbbing had mostly gone. Unwinding the bandage, she peered beneath the dressing, seeing that the butterfly strips had partly given way, but that the skin across her knuckles seemed to have knitted together quite well, regardless. The bruising looked worse than it felt, and she decided to leave the wrappings off to let the air get to it. She healed faster that way.

Wriggling into a pair of old Levis, she dragged on a t-shirt and then an artfully raggedy jumper about three sizes too large. Finishing her ensemble with her old Cambridge scarf and a knitted woollen cap, she slung her bag over her shoulder and prepared to meet the day.

Starting at Covent Garden.

The Garden had always been one of her most favourite places in London and she knew it well; the cafes and the bars and the little shortcuts and alleys that took you from one place into what seemed to be a different world. She loved the touristy shops and the eccentric eateries and flower stalls.

Walking around to the junction of the main road, Grace flagged down an empty cab and told the driver where she wanted to go.

###

"Makes you wonder however people managed to chat to each other before bloody email came along," John was almost at the end of his ability to focus. After nearly seven hours of scrolling through the piece-meal activities that were the daily grind of one Stratford Thomas, John was prepared to vote every staff-member an enormous pay rise if this was any indication of what these people went through on behalf of the British people. As far as he was concerned, this was little short of torture and he vowed to be very, very clear on what was at the other end of anything he agreed to do for Sherlock in the future.

Apart from going cross-eyed, his head felt as if it were about to explode and there was so much caffeine in his system, his fingers were starting to twitch. What he needed now was a nice long drink of cold water, a hot shower and a walk in the bracing fresh air of London in the winter.

"There's nothing here, either," Mycroft ran fingers across his forehead, clearly wearied by the mind-numbing activity and yet still looking far fresher than his companions-in-surveillance. "Nothing," he sighed, frustrated. Turning slightly, he watched his brother's body-language to see if he had been any more successful than the rest of them.

Sherlock's shoulders were unnaturally tense and held in a way that suggested his mind was still focused on the data before him. With a sudden exhale and a slap of his hand on the keyboard, the younger Holmes signalled his utter disgust at a wasted night.

"Hopeless!" he growled. "We've been through everything from each remaining member of the Archives team and we have nothing to show for it," he snapped. "And yet there _has_ to be something, some link that will tell us who is behind both the theft of the materials and the murder of Colin Ward. There _has_ to be." He dragged long fingers though his mop of hair.

"The only thing I found odd was the fact that rather than walk a few yards into each other's office, they seemed to be doing a lot of emailing between themselves," John yawned mightily. "Great flurries of them."

"Flurries?" Sherlock turned and fixed his flatmate with a sudden look. "Define _flurries_."

"Well, you know," John wrinkled his forehead. "_Flurries_. Little groups of them; waves of emails."

"Waves?" Sherlock turned back to his keyboard and summoned up the email logs for Shane Meath.

There were indeed flurries. Possibly even waves.

Sherlock looked thoughtful. "Mycroft, check your candidate's email log between ten and eleven yesterday morning, will you?"

Turning back to the digital files, the elder Holmes skimmed rapidly through the suggested time-period. "There are several incoming and outgoing emails during that time to each of the three other members of the Archives team," he acknowledged. "However," he paused, opening up several of them. "They appear to be blank."

"There's no reason for them all to be blank," Sherlock scowled. "One, sent in error, perhaps. But _several?_ No, _no_," he shook his head, the scowl a seemingly permanent feature of his face. "There has to be something here, some use of code, _something_," his expression turned slightly feral. "Just like the coded sheet in the child's photograph."

Turning his focus once again to one of the blank emails, he scrolled right the way down to the very end where a brief disclaimer advised what to do if the mail had been received in error. Buried, tiny and almost invisible at the very end of the final sentence, was a strange symbol.

Clicking the symbol, he was taken to an unknown but linked attachment; a document consisting of a paragraph of inexplicable square pictographs and other, equally unusual figures, but figures and shapes that looked intriguingly familiar ...

Sherlock froze, his entire frame suddenly rigid as his brilliant mind arrived at a precipitous yet logical leap of awareness. "John ..." his voice was a whisper. "The _photographs_ ..."

Ignoring the several expressions of curiosity on the faces of the others in the room, he swivelled violently on his chair, rattling the keyboard until the surveillance tape, the one from the camera observing every move on Shane Meath's screen from over his shoulder, leaped into life. Scrolling back at speed until he found the specific shot of Meath's computer screen; the one where he momentarily flicked to his desktop screen.

The desktop screen with the photographs of his children.

His three, dark-haired, children.

"_Yes!_" Sherlock sounded like a five-year-old at the fair. He swivelled back to stare at his brother, his eyes wide with victory. "Your Archivist said that she'd seen photographs on Meath's desktop before," he said, almost breathless. "Of his children," he added. "His three, _dark-haired_, children."

"And?" Palmer looked confused.

"Look at Meath's desktop as at yesterday morning," Sherlock's sweeping gesture was grand and theatrical, as he drew everyone's attention to the image of the desktop that sat before them now.

There were indeed photographs of children, three of them, in fact.

_But these children were all blonde, the centre one being of a young child standing beside a garden slide._

"Meath was using photographs of children to smuggle out digitised material hidden in the textels of the image?" Palmer was clearly appalled, the muscles of his jaw standing rigid and taut.

"Not just Meath," Sherlock called up the email log, highlighting and enlarging the screen so that the time-stamp and IP address for each one stood dark and clear. He stepped across to John's log for the same time, and then Palmer's and finally Mycroft's. In each case he highlighted and enlarged the same group of emails, each carefully blank of content, and yet each sent with a purpose and design. There was no error here.

"All of them," he said. "All of them were in on this."

"_All_ of them?" John was astounded. "The whole team?"

"A conspiracy, indeed," Mycroft was already pulling out his mobile, speed-dialling Lestrade. With luck, they could have officers at each of the four houses virtually simultaneously.

"Ah, Lestrade," the elder Holmes was smoothness itself. "I want you to place each of the remaining four MI5 Archive team members under arrest and bring them here," he said. "It is now a matter of some urgency."

There was a burst of low-volumed speech from the other end.

Mycroft's expression stilled and went curiously blank, as if his mind suddenly focused on something far more critical than maintaining a socially-acceptable countenance.

"When and where?" he demanded, the tone of his voice alerting the others in the room.

Something was wrong.

"How long ago did she leave the message?" There were further words from the other end of the conversation, none of which melted Mycroft's frozen face one iota.

"Take them all, _now_. Do whatever you need to do, but ensure her safety at all costs, _do you understand?_ Use force, if necessary. I repeat, you are authorised to use force."

Ending the call, Mycroft immediately placed another, this time to one of his operatives within the CCTV surveillance section.

"Covent Garden, subject _Reader_. Trace and confirm to me and the following number," he said, rattling off the digits for Lestrade's mobile. "_Emergency Level_ _One_,_ Alpha One_," he added, authority cold and hard in his words.

Straightening his back, he turned slowly and met the combined stare of the others. He took a measured breath and deliberately eased his shoulders.

"According to the inspector," he said, deliberately. "Grace Chandler has gone to meet her entire team at _Le Pain_ in Covent Garden to discuss a funeral," he paused and looked down at the back of his clenched right hand, absently noting the absolute whiteness of his knuckles. He looked up again, this time his words were for his brother. "Let us hope it is not _hers_," he added softly.

###

"Jesus _Christ_," Greg looked blankly at the phone in his hand for a second, before twisting away from his desk and sticking his head out into the main concourse of the section. "I need an emergency squad to take down four suspects in Covent Garden," he yelled. "Armed Response Unit and individual firearms have been authorised; I need volunteers. Who's with me?"

Sally Donovan was already pulling her coat on and walking to the far end of the section-office, to the tiny barred and locked room at the very end which contained various articles of defensive clothing and a formidable, double-locked, heavy steel cabinet.

Locating a very specific key among a ring full of others in her pocket, she unlocked the top security bolt. "_Waiting on you, Guv_," she yelled back, as Greg strode into the room, his own key at the ready.

Opening the double-doors of the steel locker, Lestrade quickly handed a clipboard around to the several members of his team already gathered and waiting. For each signature, Sally handed over a semi-automatic Glock, noting the serial number beside the name. Reserving a final pistol for his own use, Lestrade also signed out two single-fire Carbines; one to Sally and the second to the only other man on the squad trained in the use of the two-trigger automatic. Himself.

"Grace Chandler is deemed to be in serious danger; we've have to find her and bale her out, while arresting four other members of her MI5 team, so let's be having you," he said, carrying the Carbine muzzle-down and walking swiftly towards the door and down to the courtyard where two powerful cars were waiting beside his BMW. The sound of multiple car doors slamming in unison was a convincing argument that help was on the way.

###

At this early relatively hour of the morning, right after peak traffic, the roads were fairly clear and the cab had Grace Chandler at the main entrance of Covent Garden Market in less than ten-minutes. The place, even on a cold and wintery morning, was packed as usual with tourists and people selling things to tourists, especially in the stone arcades that ringed the entire marketplace, the old hangout of flower-sellers and barrow-boys.

It was a lot warmer inside and she unwound the scarf from around her throat as she walked along the stone-flagged passages and through the thick stone arches until she came to the front door of a café that was always larger on the inside than it seemed. _Le Pain_ had rooms all over the place; great big ones out back for large groups; tiny little ones upstairs for intimate family meals, even a range of small booths for couples hoping for a discreet hour away from the rest of the world.

Telling the smiling young man who greeted her that she was looking for her four friends who had been here for at least half-an-hour, his face brightened with recognition.

"You have to be Grace, yes?" he smiled, nodding. "They're all up this way," he said, beckoning her to follow him as he ran up a narrow flight of stairs and into a semi closed-off mezzanine space with a single large table and half-a-dozen chairs. Four of the chairs were already occupied.

Shane Meath stood, an odd look on his face; part awkward, part embarrassed.

"You came, then," he nodded. "Wasn't sure if you would or not."

"You asked me to come," Grace took in the faces of the people around the table. None of them looked particularly happy she was there, but that was, perhaps, understandable. She was still a stranger and the youngest of their team had just died a gruesome death. No surprise if they felt she was intruding. "Or have you changed your minds and would rather I leave you all in peace?" she asked, willing to leave if they felt she was too much the outsider.

"No, no, sit, please," Ruth Lannagan pulled out a chair beside her. "We simply didn't know if you were going to be up for an outing after yesterday, and being injured the other night and everything," she said, her eyes dropping to Grace's left hand. "Is that it?"

Realising that Ruth was staring at her bruised and reddened knuckles, Grace shrugged, taking the indicated seat. "It was an accident, no big deal," she looked rueful. "Are we having coffees?"

"Yeah," Meath waved at a passing waiter, asking him to bring another large pot of coffee for them and some more milk.

"So," Grace leaned her elbows on the table, looking from one to the other of her team. "Was there anything specific you wanted to talk about, or are we having a bit of a wake for Colly?" she asked, feeling her throat grow tight as she said the boy's name. This was not going to be an easy discussion, no matter what.

"Um, well," Ruth Lannagan looked down at her clasped hands, waiting as the server came by and dropped off another pot of fragrant Arabica. "We were wondering what you know about everything that happened yesterday," she said. "Because we thought you weren't going to come in and then you did ... and then you found Colly in the basement ..." her words tailed off.

"So we were wondering if there was anything you knew like, that you could tell us about; anything that we might find helpful to know," Shane Meath's Geordie accent was stronger than usual this morning, Grace observed with some peripheral part of her brain. Must be the upset. It was affecting them all.

"Like what?" she was a little uncertain. "What do you think I might know that has to do with Colly's death?" she frowned slightly. "And there's no real reason behind me coming in yesterday except that I'd finished all the reading I had to do at home and found myself walking near the office," she looked around them again.

There was something strange in the air, some odd kind of tension that didn't feel as if it had anything to do with Colin Ward. It felt as if the tension was directed at _her_.

"Why?" she said, suddenly curious, looking at them. "What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on, nothing at all," Magda Borowski's laughter was brittle and manifestly false. Something was very wrong here and Grace felt her invisible Omega antenna start to twitch.

"No, there is something wrong, isn't there?" she looked at each of her team in turn. "Something's wrong and for some reason you want to know if I'm involved in whatever it is that is making you worried."

A piece of information clicked inside her head. She turned back to look into Ruth's nervous eyes.

"How did you know I'd hurt myself the night before last?" she asked, slowly. "I never told any of you, nor did I mention it to Colly in my email. I only came into work with a bandaged hand; I could have done it yesterday morning for all anyone knew, so why did you think I'd hurt myself the other night?"

The expression on Lannagan's face went from mildly uneasy to suddenly stricken.

"We merely assumed it had been done in the evening after you had left work for the day," Stratford Thomas interjected smoothly. "We all wondered when we saw the bandage."

But Grace was still watching the Intelligence Officer's face, as Ruth's skin darkened into a deep blush and the younger woman eventually looked away.

Grace didn't really need her additional senses to know a lie when it was flailing about under her nose. Not when it was so blatant.

"You already knew I'd hurt my hand that night," she murmured, staring down at the scrubbed wooden table top, thinking hard. How could Ruth Lannagan know about her hand? How could the woman have possibly discovered that piece of information ... unless.

Grace lifted her head sharply. "So who was there?" she said. "Clearly one of you was there, at that place. Who was it?" She stared around at each of them.

Slowly, the two men first, each member of the Archive team inhaled softly and sat back, a strange look of detachment shared between them.

"Told you it was a mistake to bring her here," Magda pursed her mouth and looked disgusted. "And now look what's happened."

"Yeah, well, that's not going to help us all much now, is it?" Shane Meath folded his arms sullenly. "This has totally fucked up the situation."

Still not entirely sure what was going on, Grace felt the skin on her arms and the fine hairs at the back of her neck rise up and begin to prickle. She realised that whatever was wrong was a lot worse than she'd imagined. But _how_ much more wrong ...

There was only one way to find out.

"So why don't you tell me all the details?" she said as nonchalantly as she was able, reaching down and lifting her cup of freshly-poured coffee. "Clearly I'm going to hear all about it one way or another, so it may as well be from you lot."

"You have no idea what you're getting into, Doctor Chandler," Stratford Thomas blinked slowly. "You're already in an invidious position."

"We're in the middle of a bustling café in the middle of Covent Garden which," Grace paused, gesturing with her bad hand. "Is hardly me being in an invidious anything," she said, replacing her cup in its saucer. "Plus you may also note, Mr Thomas," she added, staring the older man straight in the eye. "That I am not of a panicky disposition and it will take quite a bit to rattle me; so don't even try it. I didn't get this MI5 job because I was a shrinking violet, y'knaw."

Unexpectedly, Meath laughed. "And that's the Geordie right there," he said, shaking his head from side to side and heaving a deep sigh. "If only you hadn't come into the office yesterday," he said. "Everything would have been so much easier and less messy."

Finally, Grace realised what none of them were actually saying.

Colin Ward's death was on their hands.

Her throat was suddenly sawdust-dry, and she forced herself to swallow past it, reaching down for her coffee again. Though she could no longer taste anything, the warm liquid eased the terrifying constriction a little.

"Why did Colly have to die?" she found herself whispering. "He was a boy."

"He saw something he wasn't supposed to see," Shane looked momentarily haggard. "And our Colly was never one who could keep his trap shut about anything he found odd," he added. "Eternally curious and always asking questions about things, he was. Too many damned questions."

"So you ... killed him?" Grace almost let her cup fall from between nerveless fingers. "A boy who probably forgot whatever it was you think he noticed the minute he went off to do something else ... you killed him callously and in cold blood, you rotten _bastard_," she spat the last few words across the table at Meath, the anger rising inside her so fiercely that she wanted to pick up her chair and deck him with it.

Everything in her vision went slightly red as Grace felt her heart roar in her chest and her skin burn with the sheer weight of her fury.

"And there'll be no more of that," Shane Meath scooted across to the seat beside her as she felt a hard sharpness press into her side, just beneath her left armpit.

"One more squeak from you and this knife will make sure there won't be a second one," he hissed, half under his breath.

"You'd kill me here and expect nobody to notice?" Grace no longer cared what she said, her anger was transcendent. "How can someone so clever be so stupid?" she snarled, trying to wrench herself away, only to be pulled up short by an acute stab of pain in her left side.

"That's only a taste of what it'll feel like if I really decide to do this," Meath promised unpleasantly as she felt a trickling warmth of blood down the inside of her t-shirt where he'd cut her. "Now what we're all going to do is get up from the table and go downstairs to pay our bill," he murmured. "And then we're all going to take a little walk to the cab-rank. And there'll be no noise and no fuss or my little friend here will go for something a little more critical," he added, placing the sharp point of the blade directly against her lower spine. "Dying is one thing" he said, nastily. "Being crippled for life might not be quite so pleasant, eh?"

Standing, Meath dragged Grace up beside him as the others got to their feet, the knife still pressed into her back.

"Time to go for that walk," he said.

###

In the seconds following Mycroft's announcement, the other three stared at him, the tension in the room an electric, tangible thing.

"But your surveillance operatives on each member of the team would have seen them and each other?" John questioned. "Can't they do something?"

Gerald Palmer was half turned from the group, his phone pressed hard against his ear, a series of rushed instructions issuing from between his lips.

"If Grace Chandler has already met up with her people, then the four MI5 operatives will not be enough to take down the entire group _and_ ensure public safety," Mycroft tightened his jaw, a rising sense of angry impotence beginning to spiral inside him. "Nothing can be done until the police arrive," his scowl was even more imposing than his brother's. "Lestrade's team will be enroute as we speak."

"They'll be delayed by the road works on the north side of Parliament Square," Sherlock muttered, already striding towards the door. "_Car?_" he demanded, staring fiercely across the room towards his older sibling.

"_Outside_," Mycroft was already on his phone as both Sherlock and John left the room at speed, advising his driver to take them both to Covent Garden. Immediately he ended the call, he called the Director of Greater London's Traffic Authority, issuing a series of terse directives.

Palmer raised his eyebrows.

"A little help," Mycroft replaced the phone in his pocket, checking his hunter for the time. The idea of staying here, while everything important was taking place less than a mile away as the crow flew, was testing. Extraordinarily testing.

"What kind of car are you driving these days, Gerald?" his smile was fleeting.

###

Already in Mycroft's big black beast of a Jaguar, the driver had them flying across Lambeth Bridge and towards Lambeth Palace Road. The traffic lights were nicely green and the car roared through without pause. All the way down past Thomas' Hospital, and up York Road, not a single red stop light slowed their progress.

"This is amazing," John peered out the left-hand side window. "The gods are on our side, that's for sure," his eyebrows lifted a little higher as they zoomed through yet another set of traffic lights gleaming brilliantly green.

"At least one," Sherlock's tone was dry as he checked his watch. It had been less than five minutes since they'd left Millbank, but they were already across Waterloo Bridge and over the Strand, heading for Burleigh Street, Southampton Street, the back end of Covent Garden Market and _Le Pain Quotidien_.

"This is as close as I can get you," the driver announced over his shoulder as the car sighed to a stop. "It's all pedestrianized from here."

"It'll do." Flinging his door open, Sherlock's long legs strode over the cobbled ground as John sprinted alongside.

"Where can they hide?" a soldier's question, John's eyes scanned the morning crowd for the striking blonde.

"They may still be in the café," Sherlock checked the faces of everyone they passed, the flare of his coat a dramatic dark wake behind him.

There was a young male barista at a coffee bar near the entrance, doing something complicated with a large, stainless steel machine. The pungent aroma of roasting coffee was fragrant in the air.

"Very attractive blonde woman arrived a short while ago looking for a group of four people," Sherlock said, without preamble. "Seen her?"

The coffee-maker shook his head. "Not me," he said. "But Marcel's been on the door this morning," he paused, looking around. Catching sight of another white-aproned man, he whistled, beckoning him over.

"These gentlemen are looking for a blonde lady, not long since arrived, with a party of four," he said. "Did she turn up?"

"Oh yeah," Marcel nodded, grinning. "_Grace_, one of the men in the group said her name was. Too good-looking to forget, was that one," he grinned some more. "Took her up to the mezzanine room; her friends were already there having coffee."

"And are they still up there?" John straightened his back and stretched out his fingers in unconscious preparation for a physical confrontation.

"Nah. They finished and all went out through the inside door towards the rest of the market about five minutes ago," the man looked momentarily concerned. "She didn't look very well when she left though," he said. "Maybe that was why they seemed to be getting out in a bit of a hurry."

"Which direction did they take?" Sherlock was already heading towards the inner market exit.

"Think it was around towards the left," Marcel wrinkled his forehead, considering. "Maybe down towards the Arcade," he said. "Can't say for sure, though."

Sherlock's phone rang in his pocket.

"Mycroft," he took the call. "I need eyes," he said. "The probability is they're still in the vicinity," he announced. "But there's too many bodies to see through; I need your eyes."

There were sounds from the other end of the phone.

"Good. And where from there? We need to get them away from the crowds or it might get messy."

With his phone still clamped to his ear, Sherlock navigated his way through the busy crowd of tourists, his height a real benefit as he was able to see over the heads of most people.

"_Hurry_, John," he instructed. "Mycroft has them on CCTV; they're heading towards the north end of the market; perhaps they have a vehicle there. If they get Doctor Chandler in a car, she'll be in mortal danger."

Climbing up a nearby indoor lamppost, John managed to get a good four feet higher than even his flatmate could see and he searched the surging mass of people ahead for anyone who looked familiar.

There was a man.

A man whose face John knew nearly as well as his own after a night spent trawling through almost eight hours of his mind-numbing work. Stratford Thomas was about sixty-feet away, but heading directly for the nearest exit. There were several people with him, but John couldn't see Grace Chandler.

"They're directly ahead, walking slowly," John pointed from his high perch. "Another thirty feet and they'll be outside and away."

"_We have to stop them_," Sherlock was already accelerating to intercept the group, searching for whichever individual was closest, when his peripheral vision caught the arrival of three light-coloured late-model cars in the road across the courtyard beyond, led by a silver-blue BMW. Though they each drew to a halt with little fuss or bother, it was clear the occupants of each care were together, judging by their disciplined and regimented movement.

Lestrade's team had finally arrived.

But if they confronted the small group heading directly towards them, who knew what the ramifications might be? Until the four MI5 personnel could be isolated, not only from Grace Chandler, but from the rest of the bustling mob around them, then any direct confrontation was perilous. Sherlock swiped a name on his phone and stabbed a finger on _Call_.

In less than two seconds, Lestrade's soft voice was in his ear.

"Thank _Christ_," the detective announced, realising the younger Holmes and probably John, had beaten them to it. "Where is she?"

"Stay where you are, Inspector," Sherlock's tone was adamant. "They are in a group, heading directly towards you. It would be unsafe to confront them at this stage; too many potential hostages."

"I don't see them ... _wait_ ... _yes_; got them now," Lestrade muttered instructions to the several Met officers around him. "We're armed; Donovan and a couple of others are going to cut around behind them to stop them from running back inside the market, but we need to corner them in a building or something where there are no easy targets."

"Agreed. Let's herd them into the colonnaded arcade to your right," Sherlock had one eye on the police, another on the figure of Stratford Thomas with whom he was almost level, though several yards apart, with tourists roving in between.

On identifying the entire group, John had drifted casually across to their far side so that he and Sherlock were now walking parallel with Meath and Thomas. Looking unconcerned, John had both hands in his pockets, looking about him as if this walk through Covent Garden market was the highlight of his day.

In order to avoid getting too close, the group of four, with Grace in their midst, changed the angle of their direction, moving fractionally across to the right. But on that side was a tall, dark-haired man, staring down into a market map; he seemed a little lost. They changed direction again so that they were heading at an almost oblique angle across the inside of the line of exits.

Lestrade had his people mirror the change of direction from the outside, although Sherlock grimaced at the _pathetic_ attempts of Met officers to assume the appearance of normal people. The fact of their vocation was as clear as the ungainly lumps inside their respective coats which spoke of a range of weaponry.

For the first time, Sherlock was able to see the object of his brother's affection, for it was becoming painfully clear that Mycroft's emotions and wellbeing were, for some reason to do with the uselessness of emotions and bodily demands, connected to Grace Chandler, and thus _affection_ was no longer hyperbole.

She looked pale, but that was hardly surprising. Other than that, the blonde woman appeared to be in no direct or imminent danger. Meath had an arm around her shoulders, which suggested he was using the cover of their bodies to hide a weapon of some sort, likely a knife, judging by the proximity and angle. Sherlock was oddly content his sibling was elsewhere; this scenario would have caused him significant discomfort. Though Mycroft was the principal, and most exasperating cause of vexation in his life, and though Sherlock was not adverse to seeing his brother come a cropper at times, he did not wish it to be _this_ way, with _this_ cause. Nor would he allow Doctor Chandler to suffer foul play through this inept effort at abduction. He could not permit his own reputation to be so sullied by such a travesty.

Bright daylight brought the awareness that they were all now outside, although much further across the courtyard towards the colonnade than before. Any moment now and Meath, who seemed to be the leader of the group, would realise he was being funnelled into a corner. It was about to become dangerous.

A slight movement from behind John as DS Donovan fell into place, her right hand holding something long and weighty inside the cover of her coat. She turned her head to catch Sherlock's eye and nodded once. From his position, the younger Holmes was also able to observe at least one other of Lestrade's people waiting just at the corner of the farthest exit to the right; the hand in his weighed-down coat-pocket clearly outlined holding something angular and heavy.

Stratford Thomas stopped suddenly, his footsteps faltering as he paused, looking around him, a wild expression on his face. He turned unexpectedly, finding a grim-faced John Watson mere feet behind him. That John neither looked away nor kept moving was enough to confirm the man's fears.

"We're being _tailed_," though not a shout, his words were loud enough to carry. "Scatter and run for it!"

Meath also turned, shocked, his eyes scanning the nearby crowd, apparently finding one or two people too close for comfort. Grabbing Grace by the collar of her jumper, he pulled her roughly across what little open space remained, until he had them both bailed up behind a trio of tall stone pillars in the corner of the colonnade. He knew this location wouldn't shield him forever, but it would be long enough for him to convince them all he was serious.

"Back _off!_" he yelled as he pressed the point of his knife beneath Grace's jaw.

The sound of armament being readied echoed around the enclose stone space as visitors and tourists stood and gaped and watched. It was almost surreal.

"Let her go," Greg stepped forward. Not close enough to get in Meath's way, but away from the crowd. "Get everyone back," he spoke over his shoulder to one of his officers. "Clear everyone away."

He turned the whole of his attention back to the scenario before him. Lestrade met the eyes of the man who held the blonde woman's life in his fingers.

"Let her go," he repeated, gently. "Nothing terrible has happened here yet," he said. "Let her go now and the court will look more favourably on the whole thing," he added softly, persuasively. "Let her go and we can all walk away from this place as we are now, with no more harm done."

"Not a chance," Shane Meath pulled Grace tighter against him. "I let her go and that's it; no bargaining power, no nothing," he spat the words. "Let me go and I'll make sure she's released unharmed once I'm away."

"Not going to happen, sorry," Greg shook his head slowly. "You know I can't let you go from here; there's been a murder and that means my hands are tied. Best thing now is to make this as easy on yourself as you can," he said. "Let her go and we can see what we can do about the whole situation," Lestrade walked a few steps closer. "Let her go."

In answer, Meath pressed the blade harder into Grace's skin, a fine line of red appearing at her throat.

"Then take me instead, look," Lestrade had already dropped his coat to the ground, concealing the Carbine in its heavy folds. He stood there, his suit jacket open, arms wide, hands outstretched. "At least I know how to get you out of this place," he said. "She doesn't. She's a burden that you don't need, so just take me instead and let her go, okay?"

"Come around here, then," Meath indicated the far side of the pillars with a nod of his head, the knife not straying from its contact with the tender skin of Grace's neck. "If you're so determined to make yourself useful, come around here and I'll have two hostages instead of one."

Knowing that either he or Meath would be walking away from this, but probably not the both of them, Greg took a deep breath and began to walk around the far side of the stone pillars as directed.

He got his first look at Grace's face and took another sharp breath.

She was pale and clearly tense ... but that wasn't what made him suck air hard into his chest.

It was the look in her eyes.

Not, as he had partly expected, fear and anxiety and, maybe, a little relief at seeing him.

No, none of those things.

What he could see in the twin pools of blazing grey fire was _fury_. Grace Chandler was livid with rage and was about to tackle Shane Meath herself if nobody else did it.

"Tell someone to shoot this murderous bastard," she ground the words out between her teeth. "He killed Colin Ward and he did it all for money," Grace struggled beneath the arms holding her captive. "Just get someone to put a gun on him, don't worry about me, get _him_."

"Shut up," Meath pulled her harder against his chest, pressing the point of the knife in until she stopped fighting. "I'm going to walk away from this, and you're going to help make it happen," he muttered.

"Nobody's going anywhere," Lestrade moved one step closer, shaking his head sadly. "Give it up now and save yourself."

"I'll kill her," the Geordie grinned suddenly. "She's right; I did the boy and I'll do her too, I got nothing to lose now, have I?"

"Only your children," a new voice echoed off from the side as Sherlock appeared slowly. "Do this and you'll probably never see them again," he added. "Sure you want to do that?"

"You leave ma kids out of this," Meath was abruptly infuriated, his grip loosening slightly as he focused on the new threat rather than the one in his arms.

In a second, Grace managed to tear herself half-away, her baggy jumper loose enough that the blade was no longer in danger of slicing her throat.

"_Inspector!_" Sherlock tossed a compact black shape through the air.

Grabbing the Glock with both hands, Greg steadied and aimed the weapon in the same movement. "Let her GO!" he shouted at Meath, "_Or I will fire!_"

Too busy trying to hold a knife in one hand and recapture his hold on Grace with the other, Meath was too far gone to hear anything now, let alone listen. Snarling, he raised the blade to shoulder-height, preparing to end the woman who had denied him everything; a job, a future, even, now, escape.

The sound of a single shot echoed large across the stone courtyard as Lestrade put a round through Meath's thigh. The man screamed and staggered, but his madness now was so entire that not even pain was going to stop him. He raised the knife again.

Greg fired once more, this time aiming squarely at Shane Meath's chest. The second shot was just as loud as the first.

There was no need for a third.

Shoving the gun in his pocket, Greg ran around Meath's body until he could kneel beside Grace, helping her to sit up and catch her breath as she leaned into his body.

"You okay?" he asked. "Sorry, silly question."

"I'm okay," Grace closed her eyes and concentrated on the sturdy warmth of the man with his arm around her shoulders. "There wasn't time for them to do anything, really."

"Got all the others, Guv," Sally Donovan appeared around the far pillar, a look of some satisfaction on her face. "They weren't very good at running away."

"Call two ambulances," Greg bent his head over a mop of fair hair as his own breathing quietened. "And take this," he added, holding out the Glock between finger and thumb. "I know the drill as well as anyone."

"Are you in trouble now?" Grace frowned, still leaning back against his chest. "Because you shot him?"

"The British public still don't much go for coppers shooting people," he sounded philosophical. "There'll be an inquiry, but everything will be fine," he shrugged. "I'll have to take a couple days off work, is all."

Grace found herself wanting to get up.

"Ah _ah_ ah," Greg laid careful fingers on her shoulder. "Not until the medicos get to look at you, so just stay put for a few seconds," he said, half-smiling. "It means I get to play knight errant for a bit longer."

"You're all bloody mad, the whole lot of you," Grace wanted to protest, but she felt just fine where she was.

###

"It's over, Mycroft," Sherlock spoke into his phone. "Doctor Chandler is safe and has suffered no serious physical harm. The MI5 people are in custody, except for Shane Meath who refused to listen to wisdom and suffered the consequences. Did you catch any of it on CCTV?"

The phone's reply laid a faint grin on his lips. "Of course," the younger Holmes was almost blasé. "I'll see he gets the message."

Walking over towards the remaining ambulance; the first one had already gone, taking Meath's body away to the nearest mortuary, he saw that Grace was currently having her hand rebandaged by a paramedic, while a warm orange blanket hung over her shoulders.

"My dear brother wanted me to assure you the inquiry would be a formality and you should be expect to be back at the Yard within hours, rather than days," Sherlock watched as the inspector's hand curved beneath her elbow as Grace made to stand.

"Looks like I'll be the one taking you home again," Greg grinned. "Seem to be making quite the habit of it recently, don't I?"

"I wouldn't get too comfortable being off-duty, Inspector," Sherlock narrowed his eyes a little. "You may be summoned to your desk sooner than you imagine."

"But it won't be tonight, will it, Sherlock?" Lestrade grinned again. "'Cos this afternoon I am going to have a nice long kip, and tonight, I am cooking dinner for two," he sounded quite determined, helping Grace to her feet and across to his car.

Watching them go, Sherlock scowled.

###

He stood silently, waiting until the last ambulance drove away and the crowds dispersed; people wandering back and forth across the cobbled courtyard as if nothing here had happened out of the ordinary.

Resting the palms of his hands on the strong, curved handle of his umbrella, Mycroft Holmes stepped closer to the stone rail of the balcony directly opposite the pillared colonnade which had so recently seen the demise of Shane Meath.

He had watched the entire drama, not through the lens of his CCTV cameras, but with his own eyes. He had seen it all. It would have been recorded; of course, he would watch it again later.

The flight and chase.

The capture and resistance.

The kill and its aftermath.

He had also watched, with acute interest, the behaviour of the inspector. How caring the man had been; how solicitous and thoughtful. _Dinner for two?_

The audible crack of the Malacca handle brought his attention back to the here and now. He raised an eyebrow as he inspected the curved grip of the umbrella. _Really_, this was too much; two in two days?

_Something would have to be done_. And it was up to him to do it.

Mycroft Holmes made his choice.

###

**The End**

... or is it?

My thanks, as always, to everyone who has taken the time to comment about this story. You are very generous and I love hearing from you.

(and for those who will not allow me to leave the story here)

**NEW STORY COMING SOON ... THIRD ENCOUNTER**

The concluding (or possibly not) adventure and romance that is Omegaverse.

###

**Note:**

My job requires me to do a little travelling in the next couple of weeks, so I will probably not be posting anything immediately, as I intend to do some fairly substantial research into exotic cocktails and 5-star hotels. All dreadfully hard work, of course, but someone has to do it.

###


End file.
